“Coming to something when you’re looking to thieves to keep order.”
“It’s a topsy-turvy world alright.” Volfier narrowed his eyes at the inner wall. “My old master’s on the other side o’ that. A man I fought my whole life for. Never had any riots when he was in charge.”
“Wish you were with him?”
Volfier frowned sideways. “I wish we’d won at Ospria, then the choice wouldn’t have come up. But then I wish my wife hadn’t fucked the baker while I was away in the Union on campaign three years ago. Wishing don’t change nothing.”
Shivers grinned, and tapped at his metal eye with a fingernail. “That there is a fact.”
* * *
Cosca sat on his field chair, in the only part of the gardens that was still anything like intact, and watched his goat grazing on the wet grass. There was something oddly calming about her gradual, steady progress across the last remaining bit of lawn. The wriggling of her lips, the delicate nibbling of her teeth, the tiny movements that by patient repetition would soon shave that lawn down to stubble. He stuck a fingertip in his ear and waggled it around, trying to clear the faint ringing that still lurked at the edge of his hearing. It persisted. He sighed, raised his flask, heard footsteps crunching on gravel and stopped. Monza was walking towards him. She looked beyond tired, shoulders hunched, mouth twisted, eyes buried in dark pits.
“Why the hell do you have a goat?”
Cosca took a slow swig from his flask, grimaced and took another. “Noble beast, the goat. She reminds me, in your absence, to be tenacious, single-minded and hard-working. You have to stick at something in your life, Monzcarro.” The goat looked up, and bleated in apparent agreement. “I hope you won’t take offence if I say you look tired.”
“Long night,” she muttered, and Cosca judged it to be a tremendous understatement.
“I’m sure.”
“The Osprians pulled out of Talins. There was a riot. Panic.”
“Inevitable.”
“Someone spread a rumour that the Union fleet was on its way.”
“Rumours can do more damage than the ships themselves.”
“The crown was poisoned,” she muttered.
“The leaders of Styria, consumed by their own lust for power. There’s a message in there, wouldn’t you say? Murder and metaphor combined. The poisoner-poet responsible has managed to kill a chancellor, a duke, a countess, a first citizen and a king, and teach the world an invaluable lesson about life all in one evening. Your friend and mine, Morveer?”
She spat. “Maybe.”
“I never thought that pedantic bastard had such a sense of humour.”
“Forgive me if I don’t laugh.”
“Why did he spare you?”
“He didn’t.” Monza held up her gloved right hand. “My glove did.”
Cosca could not help a snort of laughter. “Just think, one could say that by crushing your right hand, Duke Orso and his cohorts saved your life! The ironies pile one upon the other!”
“I might wait for a more settled moment to enjoy them.”
“Oh, I’d enjoy them now. I’ve wasted years waiting for more settled moments. In my experience they never come. Only look around you. The Affoians almost all deserted before daybreak. The Sipanese are already splitting into factions, falling back south-to fight each other, would be my guess. The army of Puranti were so keen to get their civil war under way they actually started killing each other in the trenches. Victus had to break it up! Victus, stopping a fight, can you imagine? Some of the Osprians are still here, but only because they haven’t a clue what else to do. The lot of them, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Which I suppose they are. You know, I’m eternally amazed at just how quickly things can fall apart. Styria was united for perhaps the length of a minute and now is plunged into deeper chaos than ever. Who knows who’ll seize power, and where, and how much? It seems an end may have been called to the Years of Blood…” and Cosca stuck his chin out and gave his neck a scratch, “somewhat prematurely.”
Monza’s shoulders seemed to slump a little lower. “The ideal situation for a mercenary, no?”
“You’d have thought. But there’s such a thing as too much chaos, even for a man like me. I swear, the Thousand Swords are the most coherent and orderly body of troops left up here. Which should give you some idea of the utter disorder that has struck your allies.” He stretched his legs out in front of him, one boot crossed over the other. “I thought I might take the brigade down towards Visserine, and press my claims there. I very much doubt Rogont will be honouring our agreement now-”
“Stay,” she said, and fixed her eyes on his.
“Stay?”
“Stay.”
There was a long pause while they watched each other. “You’ve no right to ask me that.”
“But I am asking. Help me.”
“Help… you? It’s coming to something when I’m anyone’s best hope. What of your loyal subjects, the good people of Talins? Is there no help to be had there?”
“They aren’t as keen for a battle as they were for a parade. They won’t lift a finger in case they get Orso back in charge and he hangs every man of them.”
“The fickle movements of power, eh? You’ve raised no soldiers while you had the throne? That hardly seems your style.”
“I raised what I could, but I can’t trust them here. Not against Orso. Who knows which way they’ll jump?”
“Ah, divided loyalties. I have some experience with them. An unpredictable scenario.” Cosca stuck his finger in his other ear, to no greater effect. “Have you considered the possibility of… perhaps… leaving it be?”
She looked at him as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue. “What?”
“I myself have left a thousand tasks unfinished, unstarted or outright failed across the whole breadth of the Circle of the World. In the end, they bother me considerably less than my successes.”
“I’m not you.”
“No doubt a cause of constant regret for us both. But still. You could forget about revenge. You could compromise. You could… be merciful.”
“Mercy and cowardice are the same,” she growled, narrow eyes fixed on the black gate at the far end of the blasted gardens.
Cosca gave a sad smile. “Are they indeed?”
“Conscience is an excuse not to do what needs doing.”
“I see.”
“No use weeping about it. That’s how the world is.”
“Ah.”
“The good get nothing extra. When they die they turn to shit like the rest of us. You have to keep your eyes ahead, always ahead, fight one battle at a time. You can’t hesitate, no matter the costs, no matter the-”
“Do you know why I always loved you, Monza?”
“Eh?” Her eyes flickered to him, surprised.
“Even after you betrayed me? More, after you betrayed me?” Cosca leaned slowly towards her. “Because I know you don’t really believe any of that rubbish. Those are the lies you tell yourself so you can live with what you’ve done. What you’ve had to do.”
There was a long pause. Then she swallowed as though she was about to puke. “You always said I had a devil in me.”
“Did I? Well, so do we all.” He waved a hand. “You’re no saint, that much we know. A child of a bloody time. But you’re nothing like as dark as you make out.”
“No?”
“I pretend to care for the men, but in truth I don’t give a damn whether they live or die. You always did care, but you pretend not to give a damn. I never saw you waste one man’s life. And yet they like me better. Hah. There’s justice. You always did the right thing by me, Monza. Even when you betrayed me, it was better than I deserved. I’ve never forgotten that time in Muris, after the siege, when you wouldn’t let the slavers have those children. Everyone wanted to take the money. I did. Faithful did. Even Benna. Especially Benna. But not you.”
“Only gave you a scratch,” she muttered.
She blinked at him for a moment. “Will you help me?”
Cosca raised his flask again, realised it was empty and screwed the cap back on. The damn thing needed filling far too often. “Of course I’ll help you. There was never the slightest question in my mind. I have already organised the assault, in fact.”
“Then-”
“I just wanted to hear you ask. I must say I am surprised you did, though. The mere idea that the Thousand Swords would do the hard work of a siege, have one of the richest palaces in Styria at their mercy and walk away without a scrap of booty? Have you lost your reason? I couldn’t prise these greedy bastards away with a spade. We’re attacking at dawn tomorrow, with or without you, and we’ll be picking this place clean. More than likely my boys will have the lead off the roofs by lunchtime. Rule of Quarters, and all that.”
“And Orso?”
“Orso is yesterday’s man.” Cosca sat back and patted his goat fondly on her flank. “Do as you please with him.”
The Inevitable
The dice came up two and one.
Three years ago today, Sajaam bought Friendly’s freedom from Safety. Three years he had been homeless. He had followed three people, two men and one woman, all across Styria and back. In that time, the place he had hated least was the Thousand Swords, and not just because it had a number in its name, though that was, of course, a good start.
There was order, here, up to a point. Men had given tasks with given times to do them, knew their places in the big machine. The company was all neatly quantified in the notary’s three ledgers. Number of men under each captain, length of service, amount of pay, times reported, equipment hired. Everything could be counted. There were rules, up to a point, explicit and implied. Rules about drinking, gambling and fighting. Rules about use of whores. Rules about who sat where. Who could go where, and when. Who fought and who did not. And the all-important Rule of Quarters, controlling the declaration and assignment of booty, enforced with eagle-eyed discipline.
When rules were broken there were fixed punishments, understood by all. Usually a number of lashes of the whip. Friendly had watched a man whipped for pissing in the wrong place, yesterday. It did not seem such a crime, but Victus had explained to everyone, you start off pissing where you please, then you shit where you please, then everyone dies of the plague. So it had been three lashes. Two and one.
Friendly’s favourite place was the mess. There was a comforting routine to mealtimes that put him in mind of Safety. The frowning cooks in their stained aprons. The steam from the great pots. The rattle and clatter of knives and spoons. The slurp and splutter of lips, teeth, tongues. The line of jostling men, all asking for more than their share and never getting it.
The men who would be in the scaling parties this morning got two extra meatballs and an extra spoon of soup. Two and one. Cosca had said it was one thing to get poked off a ladder with a spear, but he could not countenance a man falling off from hunger.
“We’ll be attacking within the hour,” he said now.
Friendly nodded.
Cosca took a long breath, pushed it out through his nose and frowned around him. “Ladders, mainly.” Friendly had watched them being made, over the last few days. Twenty-one of them. Two and one. Each had thirty-one rungs, except for one, which had thirty-two. One, two, three. “Monza will be going with them. She wants to be the first to Orso. Entirely determined. She’s set firm on vengeance.”
Friendly shrugged. She always had been.
“In all honesty, I worry for her.”
Friendly shrugged. He was indifferent.
“A battle is a dangerous place.”
Friendly shrugged. That seemed obvious.
“My friend, I want you to stick near her, in the fighting. Make sure no harm comes to her.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Cosca slapped Friendly on his shoulder. “The only shield I need is the universally high regard in which men hold me.”
“You sure?”
“No, but I’ll be where I always am. Well behind the fighting with my flask for company. Something tells me she’ll need you more. There are enemies still, out there. And Friendly…”
“Yes?”
“Watch closely and take great care. The fox is most dangerous when at bay-that Orso will have some deadly tricks in store, well…” and he puffed out his cheeks, “it’s inevitable. Watch out, in particular… for Morveer.”
“Alright.” Murcatto would have him and Shivers watching her. A party of three, as it had been when they killed Gobba. Two watching one. He wrapped the dice up and slid them down into his pocket. He watched the steam rise as the food was ladled out. Listened to the men grumbling. Counted the complaints.
* * *
The washed-out grey of dawn was turning to golden daylight, sun creeping over the battlements at the top of the wall they’d all have to climb, its gaptoothed shadow slowly giving ground across the ruined gardens.
They’d be going soon. Shivers shut his eye and grinned into the sun. Tipped his head back and stuck his tongue out. It was getting colder as the year wore down. Felt almost like a fine summer morning in the North. Like mornings he’d fought great battles in. Mornings he’d done high deeds, and a few low ones too.
“You seem happy enough,” came Monza’s voice, “for a man about to risk his life.”
Shivers opened his eye and turned his grin on her. “I’ve made peace with myself.”
“Good for you. That’s the hardest war of all to win.”
“Didn’t say I won. Just stopped fighting.”
“I’m starting to think that’s the only victory worth a shit,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Ahead of them, the first wave of mercenaries were ready to go, stood about their ladders, big shields on their free arms, twitchy and nervous, which was no surprise. Shivers couldn’t say he much fancied their job. They weren’t making the least effort to hide what they had planned. Everyone knew what was coming, on both sides of the wall.
Close round Shivers, the second wave were getting ready too. Giving blades a last stroke with the whetstone, tightening straps on armour, telling a last couple of jokes and hoping they weren’t the last they ever told. Shivers grinned, watching them at it. Rituals he’d seen a dozen times before and more. Felt almost like home.
“You ever have the feeling you were in the wrong place?” he asked. “That if you could just get over the next hill, cross the next river, look down into the next valley, it’d all… fit. Be right.”
Monza narrowed her eyes at the inner walls. “All my life, more or less.”
“All your life spent getting ready for the next thing. I climbed a lot of hills now. I crossed a lot of rivers. Crossed the sea even, left everything I knew and came to Styria. But there I was, waiting for me at the docks when I got off the boat, same man, same life. Next valley ain’t no different from this one. No better anyway. Reckon I’ve learned… just to stick in the place I’m at. Just to be the man I am.”
“And what are you?”
He looked down at the axe across his knees. “A killer, I reckon.”
“That all?”
“Honestly? Pretty much.” He shrugged. “That’s why you took me on, ain’t it?”
She frowned at the ground. “What happened to being an optimist?”
“Can’t I be an optimistic killer? A man once told me-the man who killed my brother, as it goes-that good and evil are a matter of where you stand. We all got our reasons. Whether they’re decent ones all depends on who you ask, don’t it?”
“Does it?”
“I would’ve thought you’d say so, of all people.”
“Maybe I
would’ve, once. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe those are just the lies we tell ourselves, so we can live with what we’ve done.”
Shivers couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“I don’t need excuses, Chief, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. What’s the name for it, when a thing’s bound to happen? There’s a word for it, ain’t there, when there’s no stopping something? No avoiding it, whatever you try to do?”
“Inevitable,” said Monza.
“That’s it. The inevitable.” Shivers chewed happily on the word like a mouthful of good meat. “I’m happy with what’s done. I’m happy with what’s coming.”
A shrill whistle cut through the air. All together, with a rattling of armour, the first wave knelt in parties of a dozen and took up their long ladders between them. They started to jog forwards, in piss-poor order if Shivers was honest, slipping and sliding across the slimy gardens. Others followed after, none too eager, sharpshooters with flatbows aiming to keep the archers on the walls busy. There were a few grunts, some calls of “steady” and the rest, but a quiet rush, on the whole. It wouldn’t have seemed right, really, giving your war cry while you ran at a wall. What do you do when you get there? You can’t keep shouting all the way up a ladder.
“There they go.” Shivers stood, lifted his axe and shook it above his head. “Go on! Go on, you bastards!”
They made it halfway across the gardens before Shivers heard a floating shriek of, “Fire!” A moment later a clicking rattle from the walls. Bolts flitted down into the charging men. There were a couple of screams, sobs, a few boys dropped, but most kept pressing forwards, faster’n ever now. Mercenaries with bows of their own knelt, sent a volley back, pinging from battlements or flying right over.
The whistle went again and the next wave started forwards, the men who’d drawn the happy task of climbing. Light-armoured mostly, so they’d move nice and nimble. The first party had made it to the foot of the walls, were starting to raise their ladder. One of ’em dropped with a bolt in his neck, but the rest managed to push the thing the whole way. Shivers watched it swing over and clatter into the parapet. Other ladders started going up. More movement at the top of the walls, men leaning out with rocks and chucking them down. Bolts fell among the second wave, but most of ’em were getting close to the walls now, crowding round, starting to climb. There were six ladders up, then ten. The next one fell apart when it hit the battlements, bits of wood dropping on the shocked boys who’d raised it. Shivers had to chuckle.
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