‘My dazzling reputation for fair play and good behaviour.’
Unsurprisingly, Eider didn’t laugh. ‘I tried to do the right thing in Dagoska.’ She jabbed at her chest with a finger. ‘I tried to do the right thing! I tried to save people! Look what it’s cost me!’
‘There might be a lesson in there about doing the right thing.’ Monza shrugged. ‘I’ve never had that problem.’
‘You can joke! Do you know what it’s like, to live in fear every moment?’
Monza took a quick step towards her and she shrank back against the wall. ‘Living in fear?’ she snarled, their masks almost scraping together. ‘Welcome to my fucking life! Now quit whining and smile for Ario and the other bastards at the ball tonight!’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Then bring him to us. Him and his brother. Do as I tell you, and you might still get a happy ending.’
She knew that neither one of them thought that very likely. There’d be precious few happy endings to tonight’s festivities.
Day turned the drill one last time, bit squealing through wood, then eased it gently free. A chink of light peeped up into the darkness of the attic and brightly illuminated a circular patch of her cheek. She grinned across at Morveer, and he was touched by a sudden bitter-sweet memory of his mother’s smiling face by candlelight. ‘We’re through.’
Now was hardly the time for nostalgia. He swallowed the upwelling of emotion and crept over, taking the greatest care to set his feet only upon the rafters. A black-clad leg bursting through the ceiling and kicking wildly would no doubt give Orso’s sons and their guards some cause for concern. Peering down through the hole, doubtless invisible among the thick mouldings, Morveer could see an opulent stretch of panelled corridor with a rich Gurkish carpet and two high doorways. A crown was carved into the wood above the nearest one.
‘Perfect positioning, my dear. The Royal Suite.’ From here they had an unobstructed view of guards stationed by either door. He reached into his jacket, and frowned. He patted at his other pockets, panic stabbing at him.
‘Damn it! I forgot my spare blowpipe! What if—’
‘I brought two extra, just in case.’
Morveer pressed one hand to his chest. ‘Thank the Fates. No! Damn the Fates. Thank your prudent planning. Where would I be without you?’
Day grinned her innocent little grin. ‘About where you are now, but with less charming company. Caution first, always.’
‘So true.’ He dropped his voice back to a whisper. ‘And here they come.’ Murcatto and Vitari appeared, both masked, powdered and dressed, or rather undressed, like the many female employees of the establishment. Vitari opened the door beneath the crown and entered. Murcatto glanced briefly up at the ceiling, nodded, then followed her. ‘They are within. So far all proceeds according to plan.’ But there was ample time yet for disasters. ‘The yard?’
Day wriggled on her stomach to the far edge of the attic where roof met rafters, and peered through the holes they had drilled overlooking the building’s central courtyard. ‘Looks as if they’re ready to welcome our guests. What now?’
Morveer crept to the minuscule, grubby window and brushed some cobwebs away with the side of one hand. The sun was sinking behind the ragged rooftops, casting a muddy flare over the City of Whispers. ‘The masked ball should soon be under way at Sotorius’ palace.’ On the far side of the canal, behind Cardotti’s House of Leisure, the torches were being lit, lamplight spilling from the windows in the black residences and into the blue evening. Morveer flicked the cobwebs from his fingers with some distaste. ‘Now we sit here in this mouldering attic, and wait for his Highness Prince Ario to arrive.’
Sex and Death
By darkness, Cardotti’s House of Leisure was a different world. A fantasy land, as far removed from drab reality as the moon. The gaming hall was lit by three hundred and seventeen flickering candles. Friendly had counted them as they were hoisted up on tinkling chandeliers, bracketed to gleaming sconces, twisted into glittering candlesticks.
The sheets had been flung back from the gaming tables. One of the dealers was shuffling his cards, another was sitting, staring into space, a third carefully stacking up his counters. Friendly counted silently along with him. At the far end of the room an old man was oiling the lucky wheel. Not too lucky for those that played it, by Friendly’s assessment of the odds. That was the strange thing about games of chance. The chances were always against the player. You might beat the numbers for a day, but you could never beat them in the end.
Everything shone like hidden treasure, and the women most of all. They were dressed now, and masked, transformed by warm candlelight into things barely human. Long, thin limbs oiled and powdered and dusted with glitter, eyes shining darkly through the eyeholes of gilded masks, lips and nails painted black-red like blood from a fatal wound.
The air was full of strange, frightening smells. There had been no women in Safety, and Friendly felt greatly on edge. He calmed himself by rolling the dice over and over, and adding the scores one upon another. He had reached already four thousand two hundred and . . .
One of the women swept past, her ruffled dress swishing against the Gurkish carpet, one long, bare leg sliding out from the blackness with each step. Two hundred and . . . His eyes seemed glued to that leg, his heart beating very fast. Two hundred and . . . twenty-six. He jerked his eyes away and back to the dice.
Three and two. Utterly normal, and nothing to worry about. He straightened, and stood waiting. Outside the window, in the courtyard, the guests were beginning to arrive.
‘Welcome, my friends, welcome to Cardotti’s! We have everything a growing boy needs! Dice and cards, games of skill and chance are this way! For those who relish the embrace of mother husk, that door! Wine and spirits on demand. Drink deep, my friends! There will be various entertainments mounted here in the yard throughout the evening! Dancing, juggling, music . . . even perhaps a little violence, for those with a taste for blood! As for female companionship, well . . . that you will find throughout the building . . .’
Men were pouring into the courtyard in a masked and powdered flow. The place was already heaving with expensively tailored bodies, the air thick with their braying chatter. The band were sawing out a merry tune in one corner of the yard, the jugglers flinging a stream of sparkling glasses high into the air in another. Occasionally one of the women would strut through, whisper to someone, lead him away into the building. And upstairs, no doubt. Cosca could not help wondering . . . could he be spared for a few moments?
‘Quite utterly charmed,’ he murmured, tipping his hat at a willowy blonde as she swayed past.
‘Stick to the guests!’ she snarled viciously in his face.
‘Only trying to lift the mood, my dear. Only trying to help.’
‘You want to help, you can suck a prick or two! I’ve enough to get through!’ Someone touched her on the shoulder and she turned, smiling radiantly, took him by the arm and swept away.
‘Who are all these bastards?’ Shivers, muttering in his ear. ‘Three or four dozen, weren’t we told, a few armed but not keen to fight? There must be twice that many in already!’
Cosca grinned as he clapped the Northman on the shoulder. ‘I know! Isn’t it a thrill when you throw a party and you get more guests than you expected? Somebody’s popular!’
Shivers did not look amused. ‘I don’t reckon it’s us! How do we keep control of all this?’
‘What makes you think I have the answers? In my experience, life rarely turns out the way you expect. We must bend with the circumstances, and simply do our best.’
‘Maybe six guards, weren’t we told? So who are they?’ The Northman jerked his head towards a grim-looking knot of men gathered in one corner, all with polished breastplates over their padded black jackets, with serious masks of plain steel, serious swords and long knives at their hips, serious frowns on their chiselled jaws. Their eyes darted carefully about the yard as though looking for threats.
‘Hmmm,’ mused Cosc
a. ‘I was wondering the same thing.’
‘Wondering?’ The Northman’s big fist was uncomfortably tight round Cosca’s arm. ‘When does wondering turn into shitting yourself?’
‘I’ve often wondered.’ Cosca peeled the hand away. ‘But it’s a funny thing. I simply don’t get scared.’ He made off through the crowd, clapping backs, calling for drinks, pointing out attractions, spreading good humour wherever he went. He was in his element, now. Vice, and high living, but danger too.
He feared old age, failure, betrayal and looking a fool. Yet he never feared before a fight. Cosca’s happiest moments had been spent waiting for battles to begin. Watching the countless Gurkish march upon the walls of Dagoska. Watching the forces of Sipani deploy before the Battle of the Isles. Scrambling onto his horse by moonlight when the enemy sallied from the walls of Muris. Danger was the thing he most enjoyed. Worries for the future, purged. Failures of the past, erased. Only the glorious now remained. He closed his eyes and sucked in air, felt it tingling pleasantly in his chest, heard the excited babbling of the guests. He scarcely even felt the need for a drink any more.
He snapped his eyes open to see two men stepping through the gate, others scraping away to make grovelling room for them. His Highness Prince Ario was dressed in a scarlet coat, silken cuffs drooping from his embroidered sleeves in a manner that implied he would never have to grip anything for himself. A spray of multicoloured feathers sprouted from the top of his golden mask, thrashing like a peacock’s tail as he looked about him, unimpressed.
‘Your Highness!’ Cosca swept off his hat and bowed low. ‘We are truly, truly honoured by your presence.’
‘Indeed you are,’ said Ario. ‘And by the presence of my brother.’ He wafted a languid hand at the man beside him, dressed all in spotless white with a mask in the form of half a golden sun, somewhat twitchy and reluctant-seeming, Cosca rather thought. Foscar, no doubt, though he had grown a beard which very much suited him. ‘Not to mention that of our mutual friend, Master Sulfur.’
‘Alas, I cannot stay.’ A nondescript fellow had slipped in behind the two brothers. He had a curly head of hair, a simple suit and a faint smile. ‘So much to do. Never the slightest peace, eh?’ And he grinned at Cosca. Inside the holes of his plain mask, his eyes were different colours: one blue, one green. ‘I must to Talins tonight, and speak to your father. We cannot allow the Gurkish a free hand.’
‘Of course not. Damn those Gurkish bastards. Good journey to you, Sulfur.’ Ario gave the slightest bow of his head.
‘Good journey,’ growled Foscar, as Sulfur turned for the gate.
Cosca jammed his hat back on his head. ‘Well, your two honours are certainly most welcome! Please, enjoy the entertainments! Everything is at your disposal!’ He sidled closer, flashing his most mischievous grin. ‘The top floor of the building has been reserved for you and your brother. Your Highness will find, I rather think, a particularly surprising diversion in the Royal Suite.’
‘There, brother. Let us see if, in due course, we can divert you from your cares.’ Ario frowned towards the band. ‘By the heavens, could that woman not have found some better music?’
The thickening throng parted to let the brothers pass. Several sneering gentlemen followed in their wake, as well as four more of the grim men with their swords and armour. Cosca frowned after their shining backplates as they stepped through the door into the gaming hall.
Nicomo Cosca felt no fear, that was a fact. But a measure of sober concern at all these well-armed men seemed only prudent. Monza had asked for control, after all. He hopped over to the entrance and touched one of the guards outside upon his arm. ‘No more in tonight. We are full.’ He shut the gate in the man’s surprised face, turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Prince Ario’s friend Master Sulfur would have the honour of being the last man to pass through the front gate tonight.
He flung one arm up at the band. ‘Something livelier lads, strike up a tune! We are here to entertain!’
Morveer knelt, hunched in the darkness of the attic, peering from the eaves of the roof into the courtyard far below. Men in ostentatious attire formed knots that swelled, dissolved, shifted and flowed in and out through the two doors that led into the building. They glittered and gleamed in pools of lamplight. Ribald exclamations and hushed chatter, poor music and good-natured laughter floated up through the night, but Morveer was not inclined to celebrate.
‘Why so many?’ he whispered. ‘We were anticipating less than half this number. Something . . . is awry.’
A gout of incandescent flame went up into the frigid night and there was an eruption of clapping. That imbecile Ronco, endangering his own existence and that of every other person in the yard. Morveer slowly shook his head. If that was a good idea then he was the Emperor of—
Day hissed at him, and he fumbled his way back across the rafters, old wood creaking gently, and applied his eye to one of the holes. ‘Someone’s coming.’
A group of eight persons emerged from the stairway, all of them masked. Four were evidently guards, armoured in highly polished breastplates. Two were even more evidently women employed by Cardotti’s. It was the final two men that were of interest to Morveer.
‘Ario and Foscar,’ whispered Day.
‘So it would undoubtedly appear.’ Orso’s sons exchanged a brief word while their guards took up positions flanking the two doors. Then Ario bowed low, his snigger echoing faintly around the attic. He swaggered down the corridor to the second door, one of the women on each arm, leaving his brother to approach the Royal Suite.
Morveer frowned. ‘Something is most seriously awry.’
It was an idiot’s idea of what a king’s bedchamber might look like. Everything was overpatterned, gaudy with gold and silver thread. The bed was a monstrous four-poster suffocated with swags of crimson silk. An obese cabinet burst with coloured liquor bottles. The ceiling was crusted with shadowy mouldings and an enormous, tinkling chandelier that hung too low. The fireplace was carved like a pair of naked women holding up a plate of fruit, all in green marble.
There was a huge canvas in a gleaming frame on one wall – a woman with an improbable bosom bathing in a stream, and seeming to enjoy it a lot more than was likely. Monza never had understood why getting out a tit or two made for a better painting. But painters seemed to think it did, so tits is what you got.
‘That bloody music’s giving me a headache,’ Vitari grumbled, hooking a finger under her corset and scratching at her side.
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.
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.
‘Ready?’ 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!’
The Great Leveller Page 23