“It will bring to mind proud shadows of Styria’s Imperial past, apparently,” said Monza.
Cosca snorted. “That or the shameful collapse of Styria’s last effort at unity.”
“I’ve mentioned that too. Many times.”
“Ignored?”
“Getting used to it.”
“Ah, hubris! As a long-time sufferer myself I quickly recognise the symptoms.”
“You’ll like this one, then.” Monza couldn’t stop herself sneering. “He’s importing a thousand white songbirds from distant Thond.”
“Only a thousand?”
“Symbol of peace, apparently. They’ll be released over the crowd when he rises to greet them as King of Styria. And admirers from all across the Circle of the World-counts, dukes, princes and the God of the fucking Gurkish too for all I know-will applaud his gigantic opinion of himself, and fall over themselves to lick his fat arse.”
Cosca raised his brows. “Do I detect a souring of relations between Talins and Ospria?”
“There’s something about crowns that makes men act like fools.”
“One takes it you’ve mentioned that too?”
“Until my throat’s sore, but surprisingly enough, he doesn’t want to hear it.”
“Sounds quite the event. Shame I won’t be there.”
Monza frowned. “You won’t?”
“Me? No, no, no. I’d only lower the tone. There are concerns about some shady deal done for the Dukedom of Visserine, would you believe.”
“Never.”
“Who knows how these far-fetched rumours get started? Besides, someone needs to keep Duke Orso company.”
She worked her tongue sourly round her mouth and spat again. “I hear the two of you have been chatting already.”
“No more than small talk. Weather, wine, women, his impending destruction, you know the sort of thing. He said he would have my head. I replied I quite understood his enthusiasm, as I find it hugely useful myself. I was firm yet amusing throughout, in fact, while he was, in all honesty, somewhat peevish.” Cosca waved one long finger around. “The siege, possibly, has him out of sorts.”
“Nothing about you changing sides, then?”
“Perhaps that would have been his next topic, but we were somewhat interrupted by some flatbow fire and an abortive assault upon the walls. Perhaps it will come up when we next take tea together?”
The trench opened into a dugout mostly covered with a plank ceiling, almost too low to stand under. Ladders leaned against the right-hand wall, ready for men to climb and join the attack. A good three score of armed and armoured mercenaries knelt ready to do just that. Cosca went bent over between their ranks, slapping backs.
“Glory, boys, glory, and a decent pay-off!”
Their frowns turned to grins, they tapped their weapons against their shields, their helmets, their breastplates, sending up an approving rattle.
“General!”
“The captain general!”
“Cosca!”
“Boys, boys!” He chuckled, thumping arms, shaking hands, giving out lazy salutes. All as far from her style of command as could’ve been. She’d had to stay cold, hard, untouchable, or there would have been no respect. A woman can’t afford the luxury of being friendly with the men. So she’d let Benna do the laughing for her. Probably why the laughter had been thin on the ground since Orso killed him.
“And up here is my little home from home.” Cosca led them up a ladder and into a kind of shed built from heavy logs, lit by a pair of flickering lamps. There was a wide opening in one wall, the setting sun casting its last glare over the dark, flat country to the west. Narrow windows faced towards the fortress. A stack of crates took up one corner, the captain general’s chair sat in another. Beside it a table was covered with a mess of scattered cards, half-eaten sweetmeats and bottles of varying colour and fullness. “How goes the fight?”
Friendly sat cross-legged, dice between his knees. “It goes.”
Monza moved to one of the narrow windows. It was almost night, now, and she could barely see any sign of the assault. Perhaps the odd flicker of movement at the tiny battlements, the odd glint of metal in the light of the bonfires scattered across the rocky slopes. But she could hear it. Vague shouting, faint screaming, clattering metal, floating indistinctly on the breeze.
Cosca slid into the battered captain general’s chair and rattled the bottles by putting his muddy boots up on the table. “We four, together again! Just like Cardotti’s House of Leisure! Just like Salier’s gallery! Happy times, eh?”
There was the creaking swoosh of a catapult released and a blazing missile sizzled overhead, shattered against the great foremost tower of the fortress, sending up a gout of flame, shooting out arcs of glittering embers. The dull flare illuminated ladders against the stonework, tiny figures crawling up them, steel glimmering briefly then fading back into the black.
“You sure this is the best time for jokes?” Monza muttered.
“Unhappy times are the best for levity. You don’t light candles in the middle of the day, do you?”
Shivers was frowning up the slope towards Fontezarmo. “You really think you’ve a chance of carrying those walls?”
“Those? Are you mad? They’re some of the strongest in Styria.”
“Then why-”
“Bad form to just sit outside and do nothing. They have ample stocks of food, water, weapons and, worst of all, loyalty. They might last months in there. Months during which Orso’s daughter, the Queen of the Union, might prevail upon her reluctant husband to send aid.” Monza wondered whether the king learning that his wife preferred women would make any difference…
“How’s watching your men fall off a wall going to help?” asked Shivers.
Cosca shrugged. “It will wear down the defenders, deny them rest, keep them guessing and distract them from any other efforts we might make.”
“Lot of corpses for a distraction.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a distraction without them.”
“How do you get men to climb the ladders for that?”
“Sazine’s old method.”
“Eh?”
Monza remembered Sazine displaying the money to the new boys, all laid out in sparkling stacks. “If the walls fall, a thousand scales to the first man on the battlements, a hundred each to the next ten who follow him.”
“Provided they survive to collect the bounty,” Cosca added. “If the task’s impossible, they’ll never collect, and if they do, well, you achieved the impossible for two thousand scales. It ensures a steady flow of willing bodies up the ladders, and has the added benefit of weeding the bravest men out of the company to boot.”
Shivers looked even more baffled. “Why would you want to do that?”
“ ‘Bravery is the dead man’s virtue,’ ” Monza muttered. “ ‘The wise commander never trusts it.’ ”
“Verturio!” Cosca slapped one leg. “I do love an author who can make death funny! Brave men have their uses but they’re damned unpredictable. Worrying to the herd. Dangerous to bystanders.”
“Not to mention potential rivals for command.”
“Altogether safest to cream them off,” and Cosca mimed the action with a careless flick of two fingers. “The moderately cowardly make infinitely better soldiers.”
Shivers shook his head in disgust. “You people got a pretty fucking way of making war.”
“There is no pretty way of making war, my friend.”
“You said a distraction,” cut in Monza.
“I did.”
“From what?”
