“You’ve found ’em what now?”
“Nice.”
“Oh.”
Morveer held his hand a moment longer, then let it free. “ Pray have a seat.” He smiled upon Murcatto as she worked her way into her chair, the barest phantom of a grimace on her face. “I must confess I was expecting you to be considerably less beautiful.”
She frowned at that. “I was expecting you to be less friendly.”
“Oh, I can be decidedly unfriendly when it is called for, believe me.” Day silently appeared and slid a plate of sweet cakes onto the table, a tray with a bottle of wine and glasses. “But it is hardly called for now, is it? Wine?”
His visitors exchanged a loaded glance. Morveer grinned as he pulled the cork and poured himself a glass. “The two of you are mercenaries, but I can only assume you do not rob, threaten and extort from everyone you meet. Likewise, I do not poison my every acquaintance.” He slurped wine noisily, as though to advertise the total safety of the operation. “Who would pay me then? You are safe.”
“Even so, you’ll forgive us if we pass.”
Day reached for a cake. “Can I-”
“Gorge yourself.” Then to Murcatto. “You did not come here for my wine, then.”
“No. I have work for you.”
Morveer examined his cuticles. “The deaths of Grand Duke Orso and sundry others, I presume.” She sat in silence, but it suited him to speak as though she had demanded an explanation. “It scarcely requires a towering intellect to make the deduction. Orso declares you and your brother killed by agents of the League of Eight. Then I hear from your friend and mine Sajaam that you are less deceased than advertised. Since there has been no tearful reunion with Orso, no happy declaration of your miraculous survival, we can assume the Osprian assassins were in fact… a fantasy. The Duke of Talins is a man of notoriously jealous temper, and your many victories made you too popular for your master’s taste. Do I come close to the mark?”
“Close enough.”
“My heartfelt condolences, then. Your brother, it would appear, could not be with us, and I understood you were inseparable.” Her cold blue eyes had turned positively icy now. The Northman loomed grim and silent beside her. Morveer carefully cleared his throat. Blades might be unsophisticated tools, but a sword through the guts killed clever men every bit as thoroughly as stupid ones. “You understand that I am the very best at my trade.”
“A fact,” said Day, detaching herself from her sweetmeat for a moment. “An unchallengeable fact.”
“The many persons of quality upon whom I have utilised my skills would so testify, were they able, but, of course, they are not.”
Day sadly shook her head. “Not a one.”
“Your point?” asked Murcatto.
“The best costs money. More money than you, having lost your employer, can, perhaps, afford.”
“You’ve heard of Somenu Hermon?”
“The name is familiar.”
“Not to me,” said Day.
Morveer took it upon himself to explain. “Hermon was a destitute Kantic immigrant who rose to become, supposedly, the richest merchant in Musselia. The luxury of his lifestyle was notorious, his largesse legendary.”
“And?”
“Alas, he was in the city when the Thousand Swords, in the pay of Grand Duke Orso, captured Musselia by stealth. Loss of life was kept to a minimum, but the city was plundered, and Hermon never heard from again. Nor was his money. The assumption was that this merchant, as merchants often do, greatly exaggerated his wealth, and beyond his gaudy and glorious accoutrements possessed… precisely… nothing.” Morveer took a slow sip of wine, peering at Murcatto over the rim of his glass. “But others would know far better than I. The commanders of that particular campaign were… what were the names now? A brother and sister… I believe?”
She stared straight back at him, eyes undeviating. “Hermon was far wealthier than he pretended to be.”
“Wealthier?” Morveer wriggled in his chair. “ Wealthier? Oh my! The advantage to Murcatto! See how I squirm at the mention of so infinite a sum of bountiful gold! Enough to pay my meagre fees two dozen times and more, I do not doubt! Why… my overpowering greed has left me quite…” He lifted his open hand and slapped it down against the table with a bang. “ Paralysed. ”
The Northman toppled slowly sideways, slid from his chair and thumped onto the patchy turf beneath the fruit trees. He rolled gently over onto his back, knees up in the air in precisely the form he had taken while sitting, body rigid as a block of wood, eyes staring helplessly upwards.
“Ah,” observed Morveer as he peered over the table. “The advantage to Morveer, it would seem.”
Murcatto’s eyes flicked sideways, then back. A flurry of twitches ran up one side of her face. Her gloved hand trembled on the tabletop by the slightest margin, and then lay still.
“It worked,” murmured Day.
“How could you doubt me?” Morveer, liking nothing better than a captive audience, could not resist explaining how it had been managed. “Yellowseed oil was first applied to my hands.” He held them up, fingers outspread. “In order to prevent the agent affecting me, you understand. I would not want to find myself suddenly paralysed, after all. That would be a decidedly unpleasant experience!” He chuckled to himself, and Day joined him at a higher pitch while she bent down to check the Northman’s pulse, second cake wedged between her teeth. “The active ingredient was a distillation of spider venom. Extremely effective, even on touch. Since I held his hand for longer, your friend has taken a much heavier dose. He’ll be lucky to move today… if I choose to let him move again, of course. You should have retained the power of speech, however.”
“Bastard,” Murcatto grunted through frozen lips.
“I see that you have.” He rose, slipped around the table and perched himself beside her. “I really must apologise, but you understand that I am, as you have been, a person at the precarious summit of my profession. We of extraordinary skills and achievements are obliged to take extraordinary precautions. Now, unimpeded by your ability to move, we can speak with absolute candour on the subject of
… Grand Duke Orso.” He swilled around a mouthful of wine, watched a little bird flit between the branches. Murcatto said nothing, but it hardly mattered. Morveer was happy to speak for them both.
“You have been done a terrible wrong, I see that. Betrayed by a man who owed you so much. Your beloved brother killed and you rendered
… less than you were. My own life has been littered with painful reverses, believe me, so I entirely empathise. But the world is brimming with the awful and we humble individuals can only alter it by
… small degrees.” He frowned over at Day, munching noisily.
“What?” she grunted, mouth full.
“Quietly if you must, I am trying to expound.” She shrugged, licking her fingers with entirely unnecessary sucking sounds. Morveer gave a disapproving sigh. “The carelessness of youth. She will learn. Time marches in only one direction for us all, eh, Murcatto?”
“Spare me the fucking philosophy,” she forced through tight lips.
“Let us confine ourselves to the practical, then. With your notable assistance, Orso has made himself the most powerful man in Styria. I would never pretend to have your grasp of all things military, but it scarcely takes Stolicus himself to perceive that, following your glorious victory at the High Bank last year, the League of Eight are on the verge of collapse. Only a miracle will save Visserine when summer comes. The Osprians will treat for peace or be crushed, depending on Orso’s mood, which, as you know far better than most, tends towards crushings. By the close of the year, barring accidents, Styria will have a king at last. An end to the Years of Blood.” He drained his glass and waved it expansively. “Peace and prosperity for all and sundry! A better world, surely? Unless one is a mercenary, I suppose.”
“Or a poisoner.”
“On the contrary, we find more than ample employment in peacetime too. In any case, my point is that killing Grand Duke Orso-quite apart from the apparent impossibility of the task-seems to serve nobody’s interests. Not even yours. It will not bring your brother back, or your hand, or your legs.” Her face did not flicker, but that
