“I love you.”
“Of course you do.” He stepped through the doorway, and she followed.
Duke Orso’s private study was a marble hall the size of a market square. Lofty windows marched in bold procession along one side, standing open, a keen breeze washing through and making the vivid hangings twitch and rustle. Beyond them a long terrace seemed to hang in empty air, overlooking the steepest drop from the mountain’s summit.
The opposite wall was covered with towering panels, painted by the foremost artists of Styria, displaying the great battles of history. The victories of Stolicus, of Harod the Great, of Farans and Verturio, all preserved in sweeping oils. The message that Orso was the latest in a line of royal winners was hard to miss, even though his great-grandfather had been a usurper, and a common criminal besides.
The largest painting of them all faced the door, ten strides high at the least. Who else but Grand Duke Orso? He was seated upon a rearing charger, his shining sword raised high, his piercing eye fixed on the far horizon, urging his men to victory at the Battle of Etrea. The painter seemed to have been unaware that Orso hadn’t come within fifty miles of the fighting.
But then fine lies beat tedious truths every time, as he had often told her.
The Duke of Talins himself sat crabbed over a desk, wielding a pen rather than a sword. A tall, gaunt, hook-nosed man stood at his elbow, staring down as keenly as a vulture waiting for thirsty travellers to die. A great shape lurked near them, in the shadows against the wall. Gobba, Orso’s bodyguard, fat-necked as a great hog. Prince Ario, the duke’s eldest son and heir, lounged in a gilded chair nearer at hand. He had one leg crossed over the other, a wine glass dangling carelessly, a bland smile balanced on his blandly handsome face.
“I found these beggars wandering the grounds,” called Foscar, “and thought I’d commend them to your charity, Father!”
“Charity?” Orso’s sharp voice echoed around the cavernous room. “I am not a great admirer of the stuff. Make yourselves comfortable, my friends, I will be with you shortly.”
“If it isn’t the Butcher of Caprile,” murmured Ario, “and her little Benna too.”
“Your Highness. You look well.” Monza thought he looked an indolent cock, but kept it to herself.
“You too, as ever. If all soldiers looked as you did, I might even be tempted to go on campaign myself. A new bauble?” Ario waved his own jewel-encrusted hand limply towards the ruby on Monza’s finger.
“Just what was to hand when I was dressing.”
“I wish I’d been there. Wine?”
“Just after dawn?”
He glanced heavy-lidded towards the windows. “Still last night as far as I’m concerned.” As if staying up late was a heroic achievement.
“I will.” Benna was already pouring himself a glass, never to be outdone as far as showing off went. Most likely he’d be drunk within the hour and embarrass himself, but Monza was tired of playing his mother. She strolled past the monumental fireplace held up by carven figures of Juvens and Kanedias, and towards Orso’s desk.
“Sign here, and here, and here,” the gaunt man was saying, one bony finger hovering over the documents.
“You know Mauthis, do you?” Orso gave a sour glance in his direction. “My leash-holder.”
“Always your humble servant, your Excellency. The Banking House of Valint and Balk agrees to this further loan for the period of one year, after which they regret they must charge interest.”
Orso snorted. “As the plague regrets the dead, I’ll be bound.” He scratched out a parting swirl on the last signature and tossed down his pen. “Everyone must kneel to someone, eh? Make sure you extend to your superiors my infinite gratitude for their indulgence.”
“I shall do so.” Mauthis collected up the documents. “That concludes our business, your Excellency. I must leave at once if I mean to catch the evening tide for Westport-”
“No. Stay a while longer. We have one other matter to discuss.”
Mauthis’ dead eyes moved towards Monza, then back to Orso. “As your Excellency desires.”
The duke rose smoothly from his desk. “To happier business, then. You do bring happy news, eh, Monzcarro?”
“I do, your Excellency.”
“Ah, whatever would I do without you?” There was a trace of iron grey in his black hair since she’d seen him last, perhaps some deeper lines at the corners of his eyes, but his air of complete command was impressive as ever. He leaned forwards and kissed her on both cheeks, then whispered in her ear, “Ganmark can lead soldiers well enough, but for a man who sucks cocks he hasn’t the slightest sense of humour. Come, tell me of your victories in the open air.” He left one arm draped around her shoulders and guided her, past the sneering Prince Ario, through the open windows onto the high terrace.
The sun was climbing now, and the bright world was full of colour. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. Below, at the very bottom of a dizzy drop, the river wound through the wooded valley, autumn leaves pale green, burned orange, faded yellow, angry red, light glinting silver on fast-flowing water. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields-squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden crop. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail.
She narrowed her eyes against the stiff breeze, pushed some stray hair out of her face. “I never tire of this view.”
“How could you? It’s why I built this damn place. Here I can keep one eye always on my subjects, as a watchful parent should upon his children. Just to make sure they don’t hurt themselves while they play, you understand.”
“Your people are lucky to have such a just and caring father,” she lied smoothly.
“Just and caring.” Orso frowned thoughtfully towards the distant sea. “Do you think that is how history will remember me?”
Monza thought it incredibly unlikely. “What did Bialoveld say? ‘History is written by the victors.’ ”
The duke squeezed her shoulder. “All this, and well read into the bargain. Ario is ambitious enough, but he has no insight. I’d be surprised if he could read to the end of a signpost in one sitting. All he cares about is whoring. And shoes. My daughter Terez, meanwhile, weeps most bitterly because I married her to a king. I swear, if I had offered great Euz as the groom she would have whined for a husband better fitting her station.” He gave a heavy sigh. “None of my children understand me. My great-grandfather was a mercenary, you know. A fact I do not like to advertise.” Though he told her every other time they met. “A man who never shed a tear in his life, and wore on his feet whatever was to hand. A low-born fighting man, who seized power in Talins by the sharpness of his mind and sword together.” More by blunt ruthlessness and brutality, the way Monza had heard the tale. “We are from the same stock, you and I. We have made ourselves, out of nothing.”
Orso had been born to the wealthiest dukedom in Styria and never done a hard day’s work in his life, but Monza bit her tongue. “You do me too much honour, your Excellency.”
“Less than you deserve. Now tell me of Borletta.”
“You heard about the battle on the High Bank?”
“I heard you scattered the League of Eight’s army, just as you did at Sweet Pines! Ganmark says Duke Salier had three times your number.”
“Numbers are a hindrance if they’re lazy, ill-prepared and led by idiots. An army of farmers from Borletta, cobblers from Affoia, glass-blowers from Visserine. Amateurs. They camped by the river, thinking we were far away, scarcely posted guards. We came up through the woods at night and caught them at sunrise, not even in their armour.”
“I can see Salier now, the fat pig, waddling from his bed to run!”
“Faithful led the charge. We broke them quickly, captured their supplies.”
“Turned the golden cornfields crimson, I was told.”
“They hardly even fought. Ten times as many drowned trying to swim the river as died fighting. More than four thousand prisoners. Some ransoms were paid, some not, some men were hanged.”
“And few tears shed, eh, Monza?”
“Not by me. If they were so keen to live, they could’ve surrendered.”
“As they did at Caprile?”
She stared straight back into Orso’s black eyes. “Just as they did at Caprile.”
“Borletta is besieged, then?”
“Fallen already.”
The duke’s face lit up like a boy’s on his birthday. “Fallen? Cantain surrendered?”
“When his people heard of Salier’s defeat, they lost hope.”
“And people without hope are a dangerous crowd, even in a republic.”
“Especially in a republic. A mob dragged Cantain from the palace, hanged him from the highest tower, opened the gates and threw themselves on the mercy of the Thousand Swords.”
“Hah! Slaughtered by the very people he laboured to keep free. There’s the gratitude of the common man, eh, Monza? Cantain should have taken my money when I offered. It would have been cheaper for both of us.”
“The people are falling over themselves to become your subjects. I’ve given orders they should be spared, where possible.”
“Mercy, eh?”
“Mercy and cowardice are the same,” she snapped out. “But you want their land, not their lives, no? Dead men can’t obey.”
Orso smiled. “Why can my sons not mark my lessons as you have? I entirely approve. Hang only the leaders. And Cantain’s head above the gates. Nothing encourages obedience like a good example.”
“Already rotting, with those of his sons.”
“Fine work!” The Lord of Talins clapped his hands, as though he never heard such pleasing music as the news of rotting heads. “What of the takings?”
The accounts were Benna’s business, and he came forwards now, sliding a folded paper from his chest pocket. “The city was scoured, your Excellency. Every building stripped, every floor dug up, every person searched. The usual rules apply, according to our terms of engagement. Quarter for the man that finds it, quarter for his captain, quarter for the generals,” and he bowed low, unfolding the paper and offering it out, “and quarter for our noble employer.”
Orso’s smile broadened as his eyes scanned down the figures. “My blessing on the Rule of Quarters! Enough to keep you both in my service a little longer.” He stepped between Monza and Benna, placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders and led them back through the open windows. Towards the round table of black marble in the centre of the room, and the great map spread out upon it. Ganmark, Ario and Faithful had already gathered there. Gobba still lurked in the shadows, thick arms folded across his chest. “What of our one-time friends and now our bitter enemies, the treacherous citizens of Visserine?”
“The fields round the city are burned up to the gates, almost.” Monza scattered carnage across the countryside with a few waves of her finger. “Farmers driven off, livestock slaughtered. It’ll be a lean winter for fat Duke Salier, and a leaner spring.”
“He will have to rely on the noble Duke Rogont and his Osprians,” said Ganmark, with the faintest of smiles.
Prince Ario snickered. “Much talk blows down from Ospria, always, but little help.”
“Visserine is poised to drop into your lap next year, your Excellency.”
“And with it the heart is torn from the League of Eight.”
“The crown of Styria will be yours.”
The mention of crowns teased Orso’s smile still wider. “And we have you to thank, Monzcarro. I do not forget that.”
“Not only me.”
“Curse your modesty. Benna has played his part, and our good friend General Ganmark, and Faithful too, but no one could deny this is your work. Your commitment, your single-mindedness, your swiftness to act! You shall have a great triumph, just as the heroes of ancient Aulcus did. You shall ride through the streets of Talins and my people will shower you with flower petals in honour of your many victories.” Benna was grinning, but Monza couldn’t join him. She’d never had much taste for congratulations. “They will cheer far louder for you, I think, than they ever will for my own sons. They will cheer far louder even than they do for me, their rightful lord, to whom they owe so much.” It seemed that Orso’s smile slipped, and his face looked tired, and sad, and worn without it. “They will cheer, in fact, a little too loudly for my taste.”
There was the barest flash of movement at the corner of her eye, enough to make her bring up her hand on an instinct.
The wire hissed taut around it, snatching it up under her chin, crushing it chokingly tight against her throat.
Benna started forwards. “Mon-” Metal glinted as Prince Ario stabbed him in the neck. He missed his throat, caught him just under the ear.
Orso carefully stepped back as blood speckled the tiles with red. Foscar’s mouth fell open, wine glass dropping from his hand, shattering on the floor.
Monza tried to scream, but only spluttered through her half-shut windpipe, made a sound like a honking pig. She fished at the hilt of her dagger with her free hand but someone caught her wrist, held it fast. Faithful Carpi, pressed up tight against her left side.
“Sorry,” he muttered in her ear, pulling her sword from its scabbard and flinging it clattering across the room.
Benna stumbled, gurgling red drool, one hand clutched to the side of his face, black blood leaking out between white fingers. His other hand fumbled for his sword while Ario watched him, frozen. He drew a clumsy foot of steel before General Ganmark stepped up and stabbed him, smoothly and precisely-once, twice, three times. The thin blade slid in and out of Benna’s body, the only sound the soft breath from his gaping mouth. Blood shot across the floor in long streaks, began to leak out into his white shirt in dark circles. He tottered forwards, tripped over his own feet and crashed down, half-drawn sword scraping against the marble underneath him.
Monza strained, every muscle trembling, but she was held helpless as a fly in honey. She heard Gobba grunting with effort in her ear, his stubbly face rubbing against her cheek, his great body warm against her back. She felt the wire cut slowly into the sides of her neck, deep into the side of her hand, caught fast against her throat. She felt the blood running down her forearm, into the collar of her shirt.
One of Benna’s hands crawled across the floor, reaching out for her. He lifted himself an inch or two, veins bulging from his neck. Ganmark leaned forwards and calmly ran him through the heart from behind. Benna quivered for a moment, then sagged down and was still, pale cheek smeared with red. Dark blood crept out from under him, worked its way along the cracks between the tiles.
“Well.” Ganmark leaned down and wiped his sword on the back of Benna’s shirt. “That’s that.”
Mauthis watched, frowning. Slightly puzzled, slightly irritated, slightly bored. As though examining a set of figures that wouldn’t quite add.
Orso gestured at the body. “Get rid of that, Ario.”
“Me?” The prince’s lip curled.
“Yes, you. And you can help him, Foscar. The two of you must learn what needs to be done to keep our family in power.”
“No!” Foscar stumbled away. “I’ll have no part of this!” He turned and ran from the room, his boots slapping against the marble floor.
“That boy is soft as syrup,” muttered Orso at his back. “Ganmark, help him.”
Monza’s bulging eyes followed them as they dragged Benna’s corpse out through the doors to the terrace, Ganmark grim and careful at the head end, Ario cursing as he daintily took one boot, the other smearing a red trail after them. They heaved Benna up onto the balustrade and rolled him off. Like that he was gone.
“Ah!” squawked Ario, waving one hand. “Damn it! You scratched me!”
Ganmark stared back at him. “I apologise
, your Highness. Murder can be a painful business.”
The prince looked around for something to wipe his bloody hands on. He reached for the rich hangings beside the window.
“Not there!” snapped Orso. “That’s Kantic silk, at fifty scales a piece!”
“Where, then?”
“Find something else, or leave them red! Sometimes I wonder if your mother told the truth about your paternity, boy.” Ario wiped his hands sulkily on the front of his shirt while Monza stared, face burning from lack of air. Orso frowned over at her, a blurred black figure through the wet in her eyes, the hair tangled across her face. “Is she still alive? Whatever are you about, Gobba?”
“Fucking wire’s caught on her hand,” hissed the bodyguard.
“Find another way to be done with her, then, lackwit.”
“I’ll do it.” Faithful pulled the dagger from her belt, still pinning her wrist with his other hand. “I really am sorry.”
“Just get to it!” growled Gobba.
The blade went back, steel glinting in a shaft of light. Monza stomped down on Gobba’s foot with all the strength she had left. The bodyguard grunted, grip slipping on the wire, and she dragged it away from her neck, growling, twisting hard as Carpi stabbed at her.
The blade went well wide of the mark, slid in under her bottom rib. Cold metal, but it felt burning hot, a line of fire from her stomach to her back. It slid right through and the point pricked Gobba’s gut.
“Gah!” He let go the wire and Monza whooped in air, started shrieking mindlessly, lashed at him with her elbow and sent him staggering. Faithful was caught off guard, fumbled the knife as he pulled it out of her and sent it spinning across the floor. She kicked at him, missed his groin and caught his hip, bent him over. She snatched at a dagger on his belt, pulled it from its sheath, but her cut hand was clumsy and he caught her wrist before she could ram the blade into him. They wrestled with it, teeth bared, gasping spit in each other’s faces, lurching back and forth, their hands sticky with her blood.
“Kill her!”
There was a crunch and her head was full of light. The floor cracked against her skull, slapped her in the back. She spat blood, mad screams guttering to a long drawn croak, clawing at the smooth floor with her nails.
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