Best Served Cold

by Джо Аберкромби

  He came at her clumsily, and with his hands, just as she’d guessed he would. Any man who needs to be worked up to it that hard isn’t likely to be too fearful when he finally gets there. She was ready, dodged around him, grabbed the top and bottom rims of his gilded breastplate, used his own weight to swing him, caught his toe with one well-placed boot. She grabbed the hilt of his sword as he stumbled helplessly past, bent almost double, part running and part falling, and whipped it from his belt. He squawked as he splashed into the pool, sending up a fountain of shining spray, and she spun round, blade at the ready.

  Rogont rolled his eyes. “Oh, for pity’s-” His men bundled past, all fumbling their swords out, cursing, nearly knocking the table over in their haste to get at her. “Less steel, gentlemen, if you please, less steel!” The officer had surfaced now, or at least was fighting to, splashing and floundering, hauled down by the weight of his ornamental armour. Two of Rogont’s other attendants hurried to drag him from the pool while the rest shuffled towards Monza, jostling at each other in their efforts to stab her first.

  “Shouldn’t you be the ones retreating?” she hissed as she backed away past the pillars.

  The nearest jabbed at her. “Die, you damned-”

  “Enough!” roared Rogont. “Enough! Enough!” His men scowled like naughty children called to account. “No swordplay in the bath, for pity’s sake! Will my shame never end?” He gave a long sigh, then waved an arm. “Leave us, all of you!”

  His foremost attendant’s moustache bristled with horror. “But, your Excellency, with this… foul creature?”

  “Never fear, I will survive.” He arched one eyebrow at them. “I can swim. Now out, before someone hurts themselves. Shoo! Go!”

  Reluctantly they sheathed their swords and grumbled their way from the hall, the soaked man leaving a squelching trail of wet fury behind him. Monza grinned as she tossed his gilded sword into the pool, where it vanished with a splash. A small victory, maybe, but she had to enjoy the ones she got these days.

  Rogont waited in silence until they were alone, then gave a heavy sigh. “You told me she would come, Ishri.”

  “It is well that I never tire of being right.” Monza started. A dark-skinned woman lay on her back on a high windowsill, a good stride or two above Rogont’s head. Her legs were crossed, up against the wall, one arm and her head hanging off the back of the narrow ledge so that her face was almost upside down. “For it happens often.” She slid off backwards, flipped over at the last moment and dropped silently to all fours, nimble as a lizard.

  Monza wasn’t sure how she’d missed her in the first place, but she didn’t like that she had. “What are you? An acrobat?”

  “Oh, nothing so romantic as an acrobat. I am the East Wind. You can think of me as but one of the many fingers on God’s right hand.”

  “You talk enough rubbish to be a priest.”

  “Oh, nothing so dry and dusty as a priest.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “I am a passionate believer, in my way, but only men may take the robe, thanks be to God.”

  Monza frowned. “An agent of the Gurkish Emperor.”

  “Agent sounds so very… underhanded. Emperor, Prophet, Church, State. I would call myself a humble representative of Southern Powers.”

  “What’s Styria to them?”

  “A battlefield.” And she smiled wide. “Gurkhul and the Union may be at peace, but…”

  “The fighting goes on.”

  “Always. Orso’s allies are our enemies, so his enemies are our allies. We find ourselves with common cause.”

  “The downfall of Grand Duke Orso of Talins,” muttered Rogont. “Please God.”

  Monza curled her lip at him. “Huh. Praying to God now, Rogont?”

  “To whoever will listen, and most fervently.”

  The Gurkish woman stood, stretching up on tiptoe to the ends of her long fingers. “And you, Murcatto? Are you the answer to this poor man’s desperate prayers?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And he to yours, perhaps?”

  “I’ve been often disappointed by the powerful, but I can hope.”

  “You’d hardly be the first friend I’ve disappointed.” Rogont nodded towards the map. “They call me the Count of Caution. The Duke of Delay. The Prince of Prudence. Yet you would make an ally of me?”

  “Look at me, Rogont, I’m almost as desperate as you are. ‘Great tempests,’ Farans said, ‘wash up strange companions.’ ”

  “A wise man. How can I help my strange companion, then? And, more importantly, how can she help me?”

  “I need to kill Faithful Carpi.”

  “Why would we care for treacherous Carpi’s death?” Ishri sauntered forwards, head falling lazily onto one side, then further still. Too far to look at comfortably, let alone to do. “Are there not other captains among the Thousand Swords? Sesaria, Victus, Andiche?” Her eyes were pitch black, as empty and dead as the eye-maker’s replacements. “Will not one of those infamous vultures fill your old chair, keen to pick at the corpse of Styria?”

  Rogont pouted. “And so my weary dance continues, but with a fresh partner. I win only the most fleeting reprieve.”

  “Those three have no loyalty to Orso beyond their pockets. They were persuaded easily enough to betray Cosca for me, and me for Faithful, when the price was right. If the price is right, with Faithful gone I can bring them back to me, and from Orso’s service to yours.”

  A slow silence. Ishri raised her fine black brows. Rogont tipped his head thoughtfully back. The two of them exchanged a lingering glance. “That would go a long way towards evening the odds.”

  “You are sure you can buy them?” asked the Gurkish woman.

  “Yes,” Monza lied smoothly. “I never gamble.” An even bigger lie, so she delivered it with even greater confidence. There was no certainty where the Thousand Swords were concerned, and even less with the faithless bastards who commanded them. But there might be a chance, if she could kill Faithful. Get Rogont’s help with that, then they’d see.

  “How high would be the price?”

  “To turn against the winning side? Higher than I can afford, that’s sure.” Even if she’d had the rest of Hermon’s gold to hand, and most of it was still buried thirty strides from her dead father’s ruined barn. “But you, the Duke of Ospria-”

  Rogont gave a sorry chuckle. “Oh, the bottomless purse of Ospria. I am in hock up to my neck and beyond. I’d sell my arse if I thought I could get more than a few coppers for it. No, you will coax no gold from me, I fear.”

  “What about your Southern Powers?” asked Monza. “I hear the mountains of Gurkhul are made of gold.”

  Ishri wriggled back against one of the pillars. “Of mud, like everyone else’s. But there may be much gold in them, if one knows where to dig. How do you plan to put an end to Faithful?”

  “Lirozio will surrender to Orso’s army as soon as it arrives.”

  “Doubtless,” said Rogont. “He is every bit as proficient at surrender as I am at retreat.”

  “The Thousand Swords will push on southwards towards Ospria, picking the country clean, and the Talinese will follow.”

  “I need no military genius to tell me this.”

  “I’ll find a place, somewhere between, and bring Carpi out. With two-score men I can get him killed. Small risk for either one of you.”

  Rogont cleared his throat. “If you can bring that loyal old hound out of his kennel, then I can surely spare some men to put him down.”

  Ishri watched Monza, just as Monza might have watched an ant. “And once he is at peace, if you can buy the Thousand Swords then I can furnish the money.”

  If, if, if. But that was more than Monza had any right to hope for here. She could just as easily have left the meeting feet first. “Then it’s as good as done. To strange companions, eh?”

  “Indeed. God has truly blessed you.” Ishri gave an extravagant yawn. “You came looking for one friend, and you leave with two.”

  �
��Lucky me,” said Monza, far from sure she was leaving with any. She turned towards the gate, boot heels scraping against the worn marble, hoping she didn’t start shaking before she got there.

  “One more thing, Murcatto!” She looked back to Rogont, standing alone now by his maps. Ishri had vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared. “Your position is weak, and so you are obliged to play at strength. I see that. You are what you are, bold beyond recklessness. I would not have it any other way. But I am what I am, also. Some more respect, in future, will make our marriage of mutual desperation run ever so much more smoothly.”

  Monza gave an exaggerated curtsey. “Your Resplendence, I am not only weak, but abject with regret.”

  Rogont slowly shook his head. “That officer of mine really should have drawn and run you through.”

  “Is that what you’d have done?”

  “Oh, pity, no.” He looked back to his charts. “I’d have asked for more spit.”

  Neither Rich nor Poor

  Shenkt hummed to himself as he walked down the shabby corridor, his footfalls making not the slightest sound. The exact tune always somehow eluded him. A nagging fragment of something his sister sang when he was a child. He could see the sunlight still, through her hair, the window at her back, face in shadow. All long ago, now. All faded, like cheap paints in the sun. He had never been much of a singer himself. But he hummed, at least, and imagined his sister’s voice singing along with him, and that was some comfort.

  He put his knife away, and the carved bird too, almost finished now, though the beak was giving him some trouble and he did not wish to break it by rushing. Patience. As vital to the wood-carver as it is to the assassin. He stopped before the door. Soft, pale pine, full of knots, badly jointed, light shining through a split. He wished, sometimes, that his work took him to better places. He raised one boot, and burst the lock apart with a single kick.

  Eight sets of hands leaped to weapons as the door splintered from its hinges. Eight hard faces snapped towards him, seven men and a woman. Shenkt recognised most of them. They had been among the kneeling half-circle in Orso’s throne room. Killers, sent after Prince Ario’s murderers. Comrades, of a kind, in the hunt. If the flies on a carcass can be said to be comrades to the lion that made the kill. He had not expected such as these to beat him to his quarry, but he was long past being surprised by the turns life took. His twisted like a snake in its death throes.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” he asked.

  “It’s him.”

  “The one who wouldn’t kneel.”

  “Shenkt.” This last from the man who had blocked his path in Orso’s throne room. The one he had advised to pray. Shenkt hoped he had taken the advice, but did not think it likely. A couple of them relaxed when they recognised his face, pushed back their half-drawn blades, thinking him one of their number.

  “Well, well.” A man with a pockmarked face and long, black hair seemed to be in charge. He reached out and gently pushed the woman’s bow towards the floor with one finger. “My name’s Malt. You’re just in time to help us bring them in.”

  “Them?”

  “The ones his Excellency Duke Orso’s paying us to find, who do you think? Over there, in the smoke-house yonder.”

  “All of them?”

  “The leader, anyway.”

  “How do you know you have the right man?”

  “Woman. Pello knows, don’t you, Pello?”

  Pello was possessed of a ragged moustache and a look of sweaty desperation. “It’s Murcatto. The same one who led Orso’s army at Sweet Pines. She was in Visserine, not but a month ago. Took her prisoner. Questioned her myself. That’s where the Northman lost his eye.” The Northman called Shivers, that Sajaam had spoken of. “In Salier’s palace. She killed Ganmark there, that general of Orso’s, few days afterward.”

  “The Snake of Talins herself,” said Malt proudly, “and still alive. What do you think of that?”

  “I am all amazed.” Shenkt walked slowly to the window and peered out across the street. A shabby-looking place for a famous general, but such was life. “She has men with her?”

  “Just this Northman. Nothing we can’t deal with. Lucky Nim and two of her boys are waiting in the alley at the back. When the big clock next chimes, we go in the front. They won’t be getting away.”

  Shenkt looked slowly round at each suspicious face, and gave each man a chance. “You all are determined to do this? All of you?”

  “Of fucking course we are. You’ll find no faint hearts here, my friend.” Malt looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You want to come in with us?”

  “With you?” Shenkt took a long breath, then sighed. “Great tempests wash up strange companions.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “We don’t need this fucker.” The one Shenkt had told to pray, again, making a great show of a curved knife. A man of small patience, evidently. “I say we cut his throat, and one less share to pay.”

  Malt gently pushed his knife down. “Come now, no need to be greedy. I’ve been on jobs like that before, everyone stuck on the money not the work, watching their backs every minute. Bad for your health and your business. We’ll do this civilised, or not at all. What do you say?”

  “I say civilised,” said Shenkt. “For pity’s sake, let’s kill like honest men.”

  “Exactly so. With what Orso’s paying, there’ll be enough for everyone. Equal shares all round, and we can all be rich.”

  “Rich?” Shenkt smiled sadly as he shook his head. “The dead are neither rich nor poor.” The look of mild surprise was just forming on Malt’s face when Shenkt’s pointing finger split it neatly in half.

  * * *

  Shivers sat on the greasy bed, back pressed to the dirty wall, with Monza sprawled on top of him. Her head lay in his lap, breath hissing shallow, in and out. The pipe was still in her bandaged left hand, smoke twisting from the embers in a brown streak. He frowned at it creeping through the shafts of light, rippling, spreading, filling the room with sweet haze.

  Husk was good stuff for pain. Too good, to Shivers’ mind. So good you always needed more. So good that after a while stubbing your toe seemed like excuse enough. Took your edge off, all that smoking, left you soft. Maybe Monza had more edge than she wanted, but he didn’t trust it. The smoke was tickling at his nose, making him feel sick and needy both together. His eye was itching under the bandages. Would’ve been easy to do it. Where was the harm…?

  He had a sudden panic, wriggling out from under her like he was buried alive. Monza gave an irritated burble then fell back, eyelids flickering, hair stuck across her clammy face. Shivers ripped back the bolt on the window and pulled the wonky shutters open, getting a nice view of the rotting alley behind the building and a face full of cold, piss-smelling air. At least that smell was honest.

  There were two men down there by a back door, and a woman holding one hand up. A bell rang out, from a high clock tower in the next street. The woman nodded, the men pulled out a bright sword and a heavy mace. She opened the door and they hurried in.

  “Shit,” hissed Shivers, hardly able to believe it. Three of ’em and, from the way they’d been waiting, most likely more coming in the front. Too late to run. But then Shivers was sick of running anyway. He had his pride, still, didn’t he? Running from the North and down here to fucking Styria was what landed him in this one-eyed mess in the first place.

  He reached towards Monza, but stopped short. State she was in she’d be no use. So he let her be, slid out the heavy knife she’d given him the first day they met. The grip was firm in his hand and he squeezed it tight. They were better armed, maybe, but big weapons and small rooms don’t mix. Surprise was on his side, and that’s the best weapon a man can have. He pressed himself into the shadows behind the door, feeling his heart thumping, the breath burning in his throat. No fear, no doubt, just furious readiness.

  He heard their soft steps on the stairs and had to stop himself laughing. A bit of a gi
ggle crept out all the same, and he didn’t know why, ’cause there was nothing funny. A creak and a muttered curse. Not the sharpest assassins in the whole Circle of the World. He bit on his lip, trying to stop his ribs shaking. Monza stirred, stretched out smiling on the greasy blanket.

  “Benna…” she murmured. The door was yanked open and the swordsman sprang in. Monza’s eyes came blearily open. “Whathe-”

  The second man barged in like a fool, knocking his mate off balance, lifting his mace over his head, tip scraping a little shower of plaster from the low ceiling. It was almost like he was offering it up. Would’ve seemed rude to turn it down, so Shivers snatched it from his hand while he stabbed the first one in the back.

  The blade slid in and out of him. Quick, quiet scrapes, up to the hilt. Shivers growled through his teeth, half-sniggering with the leftover shreds of laughter, arm pumping in and out. The stabbed man made a shocked little hoot each time, not sure what was happening yet, twisted round, jerking the knife out of Shivers’ hand.

  The other one turned, eyes wide, too close to swing at. “Wha-”

  Shivers thumped him in the nose with the butt of the mace and felt it pop, sent him reeling towards the empty fireplace. The stabbed man’s knees went, he caught his sword point on the wall above Monza and pitched on top of her. No need to worry about him. Shivers took a short stride, dropping onto his knees so the mace wouldn’t hit the ceiling, roaring as he swung the big lump of metal. It hit its previous owner in the forehead with a meaty crunch, stove his skull in, spattered the ceiling with spots of blood.

  He heard a scream behind, twisted round. The woman sprang through the door, a short blade in each hand. Monza’s kicking leg tripped her as she struggled out from under the dying swordsman. Happy chance, the woman’s scream switching from fury to shock as she blundered into Shivers’ arms, fumbling one of her knives. He grabbed her other wrist as he went down under her, on top of the maceman’s corpse, his head smacking against the side of the fireplace and leaving him blinded for a moment.