was fiddling with, flipping it across his knuckles from one side of his hand back to the other. The guide leaned down to whisper in his ear, then handed across the knife. His eyes and the eyes of the others were on Shivers, now. A scale was starting to seem a small reward for the task, all of a sudden.
“You Sajaam?” Louder than Shivers had in mind, voice squeaky from the smoke.
The old man’s smile was a yellow curve in his dark face. “Sajaam is my name, as all my sweet friends will confirm. You know, you can tell an awful lot about a man from the style of weapon he carries.”
“That so?”
Sajaam slid the knife from its sheath and held it up, candlelight glinting on steel. “Not a cheap blade, but not expensive either. Fit for the job, and no frills at the edges. Sharp, and hard, and meaning business. Am I close to the mark?”
“Somewhere round it.” It was plain he was one of those who loved to prattle on, so Shivers didn’t bother to mention that it weren’t even his knife. Less said, sooner he could be on his way.
“What might your name be, friend?” Though the friend bit didn’t much convince.
“Caul Shivers.”
“Brrrr.” Sajaam shook his big shoulders around like he was cold, to much chuckling from his men. Easily tickled, by the look of things. “You are a long, long way from home, my man.”
“Don’t I fucking know it. I’ve a message for you. Nicomo demands your presence.”
The good humour drained from the room quick as blood from a slit throat. “Where?”
“The usual place.”
“Demands, does he?” A couple of Sajaam’s people were moving away from the walls, hands creeping in the shadows. “Awfully bold of him. And why would my old friend Nicomo send a big white Northman with a blade to talk to me?” It came to Shivers about then that, for reasons unknown, the woman might’ve landed him right in the shit. Clearly she weren’t this Nicomo character. But he’d swallowed his fill of scorn these last few weeks, and the dead could have him before he tongued up any more.
“Ask him yourself. I didn’t come here to swap questions, old man. Nicomo demands your presence in the usual place, and that’s all. Now get off your fat black arse before I lose my temper.”
There was a long and ugly pause, while everyone had a think about that.
“I like it,” grunted Sajaam. “You like that?” he asked one of his thugs.
“It’s alright, I guess, if that style o’ thing appeals.”
“On occasion. Large words and bluster and hairy-chested manliness. Too much gets boring with great speed, but a little can sometimes make me smile. So Nicomo demands my presence, does he?”
“He does,” said Shivers, no choice but to let the current drag him where it pleased, and hope to wash up whole.
“Well, then.” The old man tossed his cards down on the table and slowly stood. “Let it never be said old Sajaam reneged on a debt. If Nicomo is calling… the usual place it is.” He pushed the knife Shivers had brought through his belt. “I’ll keep hold of this though, hmmm? Just for the moment.”
It was late when they got to the place the woman had showed him and the rotten garden was dark as a cellar. Far as Shivers could tell it was empty as one too. Just torn papers twitching on the night air, old news hanging from the slimy bricks.
“Well?” snapped Sajaam. “Where’s Cosca?”
“Said she’d be here,” Shivers muttered, half to himself.
“She?” His hand was on the hilt of the knife. “What the hell are you-”
“Over here, you old prick.” She slid out from behind a tree-trunk and into a scrap of light, hood back. Now Shivers saw her clearly, she was even finer-looking than he’d thought, and harder-looking too. Very fine, and very hard, with a sharp red line down the side of her neck, like the scars you see on hanged men. She had this frown- brows drawn in hard, lips pressed tight, eyes narrowed and fixed in front. Like she’d decided to break a door down with her head, and didn’t care a shit for the results.
Sajaam’s face had gone slack as a soaked shirt. “You’re alive.”
“Still sharp as ever, eh?”
“But I heard-”
“No.”
Didn’t take long for the old man to scrape himself together. “You shouldn’t be in Talins, Murcatto. You shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of Talins. Most of all, you shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of me.” He cursed in some language Shivers didn’t know, then tipped his face back towards the dark sky. “God, God, why could you not have sent me an honest life to lead?”
The woman snorted. “Because you haven’t the guts for it. That and you like money too much.”
“All true, regrettably.” They might’ve talked like old friends, but Sajaam’s hand hadn’t left the knife. “What do you want?”
“Your help killing some men.”
“The Butcher of Caprile needs my help killing, eh? As long as none of them are too close to Duke Orso-”
“He’ll be the last.”
“Oh, you mad bitch.” Sajaam slowly shook his head. “How you love to test me, Monzcarro. How you always loved to test us all. You’ll never do it. Never, not if you wait until the sun burns out.”
“What if I could, though? Don’t tell me it hasn’t been your fondest wish all these years.”
“All these years when you were spreading fire and murder across Styria in his name? Happy to take his orders and his coin, lick his arse like a puppy dog with a new bone? Is it those years you mean? I don’t recall you offering your shoulder for me to weep upon.”
“He killed Benna.”
“Is that so? The bills said Duke Rogont’s agents got you both.” Sajaam was pointing out some old papers stirring on the wall behind her shoulder. A woman’s face on ’em, and a man’s. Shivers realised, and with a sharp sinking in his gut, the woman’s face was hers. “Killed by the League of Eight. Everyone was so very upset.”
“I’m in no mood for jokes, Sajaam.”
“When were you ever? But it’s no joke. You were a hero round these parts. That’s what they call you when you kill so many people the word murderer falls short. Orso gave the big speech, said we all had to fight harder than ever to avenge you, and everyone wept. I am sorry about Benna. I always liked the boy. But I made peace with my devils. You should do the same.”
“The dead can forgive. The dead can be forgiven. The rest of us have better things to do. I want your help, and I’m owed. Pay up, bastard.”
They frowned at each other for a long moment. Then the old man heaved up a long sigh. “I always said you’d be the death of me. What’s your price?”
“A point in the right direction. An introduction here or there. That’s what you do, now, isn’t it?”
“I know some people.”
“Then I need to borrow a man with a cold head and a good arm. A man who won’t get flustered at blood spilled.”
Sajaam seemed to think about that. Then he turned his head and called over his shoulder. “You know a man like that, Friendly?”
Footsteps scraped out of the darkness from the way Shivers had come. Seemed there’d been someone following them, and doing it well. The woman slid into a fighting crouch, eyes narrowed, left hand on her sword hilt. Shivers would’ve reached for a weapon too, if he’d had one, but he’d sold all his own in Uffrith and given the knife over to Sajaam. So he settled for a nervous twitching of his fingers, which wasn’t a scrap of use to anyone.
The new arrival trudged up, stooped over, eyes down. He was a half-head or more shorter than Shivers but had a fearsome solid look to him, thick neck wider than his skull, heavy hands dangling from the sleeves of a heavy coat.
“Friendly,” Sajaam was all smiles at the surprise he’d pulled, “this is an old friend of mine, name of Murcatto. You’re going to work for her a while, if you have no objection.” The man shrugged his weighty shoulders. “What did you say your name was, again?”
