confident that would be never. It was the only payment he had asked for, the best gift he had ever been given, and sat now neatly folded in his inside pocket, just beside his dice.
“I will miss you, my friend, I will miss you.”
“And I you.”
“But not so much I can persuade you to remain in my company?”
“No.”
For Friendly, this was a homecoming long anticipated. He knew the number of trees on the road leading to the gate, the warmth welling up in his chest as he counted them off. He stood eagerly in his stirrups, caught a tingling glimpse of the gatehouse, a looming corner of dark brickwork above the greenery. Hardly architecture to fill most convicted men with joy, but Friendly’s heart leaped at the sight of it. He knew the number of bricks in the archway, had been waiting for them, longing for them, dreaming of them for so long. He knew the number of iron studs on the great doors, he knew Friendly frowned as the track curved about to face the gate. The doors stood open. A terrible foreboding crowded his joy away. What could be more wrong in a prison than that its doors should stand open and unlocked? That was not part of the grand routine.
He slid from his horse, wincing at the pain in his stiff right arm, still healing even though the splints were off. He walked slowly to the gate, almost scared to look inside. A ragged-looking man sat on the steps of the hut where the guards should have been watching, all alone.
“I’ve done nothing!” He held up his hands. “I swear!”
“I have a letter signed by the Grand Duchess of Talins.” Friendly unfolded the treasured document and held it out, still hoping. “I am to be taken into custody at once.”
The man stared at him for a moment. “I’m no guard, friend. Just using the hut to sleep in.”
“Where are the guards?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?”
“With riots in Musselia I reckon no one was paying ’em, so… they up and left.”
Friendly felt a cold prickle of horror on the back of his neck. “The prisoners?”
“They got free. Most of ’em ran right off. Some of ’em waited. Shut ’emselves into their own cells at night, only imagine that!”
“Only imagine,” said Friendly, with deep longing.
“Didn’t know where to run to, I guess. But they got hungry, in the end. Now they’ve gone too. There’s no one here.”
“No one?”
“Only me.”
Friendly looked up the narrow track to the archway in the rocky hillside. All empty. The halls were silent. The circle of sky still looked down into the old quarry, maybe, but there was no rattling of bars as the prisoners were locked up safe and sound each night. No comforting routine, enfolding their lives as tightly as a mother holds her child. No more would each day, each month, each year be measured out into neat little parcels. The great clock had stopped.
“All change,” whispered Friendly.
He felt Cosca’s hand on his shoulder. “The world is all change, my friend. We all would like to go back, but the past is done. We must look forwards. We must change ourselves, however painful it may be, or be left behind.”
So it seemed. Friendly turned his back on Safety, clambered dumbly up onto his horse. “Look forwards.” But to what? Infinite possibilities? He felt panic gripping him. “Forwards all depends on which way you face. Which way should I face now?”
Cosca grinned as he turned his own mount about. “Making that choice is what life is. But if I may make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“I will be taking the Thousand Swords-or those who have not retired on the plunder of Fontezarmo, at least, or found regular employment with the Duchess Monzcarro-down towards Visserine to help me press my claims on Salier’s old throne.” He unscrewed the cap of his flask. “My entirely righteous claims.” He took a swig and burped, blasting Friendly with an overpowering reek of strong spirits. “A title promised me by the King of Styria, after all. The city is in chaos, and those bastards need someone to show them the way.”
“You?”
“And you, my friend, and you! Nothing is more valuable to the ruler of a great city than an honest man who can count.”
Friendly took one last longing look back, the gatehouse already disappearing into the trees. “Perhaps they’ll start it up again, one day.”
“Perhaps they will. But in the meantime I can make noble use of your talents in Visserine. I have entirely rightful claims. Born in the city, you know. There’ll be work there. Lots of… work.”
Friendly frowned sideways. “Are you drunk?”
“Ludicrously, my friend, quite ludicrously so. This is the good stuff. The old grape spirit.” Cosca took another swig and smacked his lips. “Change, Friendly… change is a funny thing. Sometimes men change for the better. Sometimes men change for the worse. And often, very often, given time and opportunity…” He waved his flask around for a moment, then shrugged. “They change back.”
Happy Endings
Few days after they’d thrown him in there, they’d set up a gallows just outside. He could see it from the little window in his cell, if he climbed up on the pallet and pressed his face to the bars. A man might wonder why a prisoner would go to all that trouble to taunt himself, but somehow he had to. Maybe that was the point. It was a big wooden platform with a crossbeam and four neat nooses. Trapdoors in the floor so they only had to kick a lever to snap four necks at a go, easy as snapping twigs. Quite a thing. They had machines for planting crops, and machines for printing paper, and it seemed they had machines for killing folk too. Maybe that’s what Morveer had meant when he spouted off about science, all those months ago.
They’d hanged a few men right after the fortress fell. Some who’d worked for Orso, given some offence someone needed vengeance for. A couple of the Thousand Swords as well, must’ve stepped onto some dark ground indeed, since there weren’t many rules to break during a sack. But no one had swung for a long time now. Seven weeks, or eight. Maybe he should’ve counted the days, but what difference would counting ’em have made? It was coming, of that much he was sure.
Every morning when the first light crept into the cell and Shivers woke, he wondered if that would be the morning they’d hang him.
Sometimes he wished he hadn’t turned on Monza. But only because it had come out the way it had. Not because he regretted any part of what he’d done. Probably his father wouldn’t have approved of it. Probably his brother would’ve sneered and said he expected no better. No doubt Rudd Threetrees would’ve shook his head, and said justice would come for it. But Threetrees was dead, and justice with him. Shivers’ brother had been a bastard with a hero’s face, and his sneers meant nothing no more. And his father had gone back to the mud and left him to work out his own way of doing things. So much for the good men, and the right thing too.
From time to time he wondered whether Carlot dan Eider got away from the mess his failure must’ve left her in, or whether the Cripple caught up with her. He wondered whether Monza got to kill Orso, and whether it had been all she hoped for. He wondered who that bastard had been who came out of nowhere and knocked him across the hall. Didn’t seem likely he’d ever find out the answers now. But that’s how life is. You don’t always get all the answers.
He was up at the window when he heard keys rattling down the corridor, and he almost smiled at the relief of knowing it was time. He hopped down from his pallet, right leg still stiff where Friendly had stuck his knife in it, stood up tall and faced the metal gate.
He hadn’t thought she’d come herself, but he was glad she had. Glad for the chance to look her in the eye
