Monza’s. “I note you are not smiling.”
“I will. Once the League of Eight are finished and Orso is King of Styria. Then we can all hang up our swords.”
“In my experience swords do not hang comfortably from hooks. They have a habit of finding their way back into one’s hands.”
“I daresay Orso will keep you on,” said Benna. “Even if it’s only to polish the tiles.”
Ganmark did not give so much as a sharp breath. “Then his Excellency will have the cleanest floors in all of Styria.”
A pair of high doors faced the top of the stairs, gleaming with inlaid wood, carved with lions’ faces. A thick- set man paced up and down before them like a loyal old hound before his master’s bedchamber. Faithful Carpi, the longest-serving captain in the Thousand Swords, the scars of a hundred engagements marked out on his broad, weathered, honest face.
“Faithful!” Benna seized the old mercenary’s big slab of a hand. “Climbing a mountain, at your age? Shouldn’t you be in a brothel somewhere?”
“If only.” Carpi shrugged. “But his Excellency sent for me.”
“And you, being an obedient sort… obeyed.”
“That’s why they call me Faithful.”
“How did you leave things in Borletta?” asked Monza.
“Quiet. Most of the men are quartered outside the walls with Andiche and Victus. Best if they don’t set fire to the place, I thought. I left some of the more reliable ones in Cantain’s palace with Sesaria watching over them. Old-timers, like me, from back in Cosca’s day. Seasoned men, not prone to impulsiveness.”
Benna chuckled. “Slow thinkers, you mean?”
“Slow but steady. We get there in the end.”
“Going in, then?” Foscar set his shoulder to one of the doors and heaved it open. Ganmark and Faithful followed. Monza paused a moment on the threshold, trying to find her hardest face. She looked up and saw Benna smiling at her. Without thinking, she found herself smiling back. She leaned and whispered in his ear.
“I love you.”
“Of course you do.” He stepped through the doorway, and she followed.
Duke Orso’s private study was a marble hall the size of a market square. Lofty windows marched in bold procession along one side, standing open, a keen breeze washing through and making the vivid hangings twitch and rustle. Beyond them a long terrace seemed to hang in empty air, overlooking the steepest drop from the mountain’s summit.
The opposite wall was covered with towering panels, painted by the foremost artists of Styria, displaying the great battles of history. The victories of Stolicus, of Harod the Great, of Farans and Verturio, all preserved in sweeping oils. The message that Orso was the latest in a line of royal winners was hard to miss, even though his great-grandfather had been a usurper, and a common criminal besides.
The largest painting of them all faced the door, ten strides high at the least. Who else but Grand Duke Orso? He was seated upon a rearing charger, his shining sword raised high, his piercing eye fixed on the far horizon, urging his men to victory at the Battle of Etrea. The painter seemed to have been unaware that Orso hadn’t come within fifty miles of the fighting.
But then fine lies beat tedious truths every time, as he had often told her.
The Duke of Talins himself sat crabbed over a desk, wielding a pen rather than a sword. A tall, gaunt, hook- nosed man stood at his elbow, staring down as keenly as a vulture waiting for thirsty travellers to die. A great shape lurked near them, in the shadows against the wall. Gobba, Orso’s bodyguard, fat-necked as a great hog. Prince Ario, the duke’s eldest son and heir, lounged in a gilded chair nearer at hand. He had one leg crossed over the other, a wine glass dangling carelessly, a bland smile balanced on his blandly handsome face.
“I found these beggars wandering the grounds,” called Foscar, “and thought I’d commend them to your charity, Father!”
“Charity?” Orso’s sharp voice echoed around the cavernous room. “I am not a great admirer of the stuff. Make yourselves comfortable, my friends, I will be with you shortly.”
“If it isn’t the Butcher of Caprile,” murmured Ario, “and her little Benna too.”
“Your Highness. You look well.” Monza thought he looked an indolent cock, but kept it to herself.
“You too, as ever. If all soldiers looked as you did, I might even be tempted to go on campaign myself. A new bauble?” Ario waved his own jewel-encrusted hand limply towards the ruby on Monza’s finger.
“Just what was to hand when I was dressing.”
“I wish I’d been there. Wine?”
“Just after dawn?”
He glanced heavy-lidded towards the windows. “Still last night as far as I’m concerned.” As if staying up late was a heroic achievement.
“I will.” Benna was already pouring himself a glass, never to be outdone as far as showing off went. Most likely he’d be drunk within the hour and embarrass himself, but Monza was tired of playing his mother. She strolled past the monumental fireplace held up by carven figures of Juvens and Kanedias, and towards Orso’s desk.
“Sign here, and here, and here,” the gaunt man was saying, one bony finger hovering over the documents.
“You know Mauthis, do you?” Orso gave a sour glance in his direction. “My leash-holder.”
“Always your humble servant, your Excellency. The Banking House of Valint and Balk agrees to this further loan for the period of one year, after which they regret they must charge interest.”
Orso snorted. “As the plague regrets the dead, I’ll be bound.” He scratched out a parting swirl on the last signature and tossed down his pen. “Everyone must kneel to someone, eh? Make sure you extend to your superiors my infinite gratitude for their indulgence.”
“I shall do so.” Mauthis collected up the documents. “That concludes our business, your Excellency. I must leave at once if I mean to catch the evening tide for Westport-”
“No. Stay a while longer. We have one other matter to discuss.”
Mauthis’ dead eyes moved towards Monza, then back to Orso. “As your Excellency desires.”
The duke rose smoothly from his desk. “To happier business, then. You do bring happy news, eh, Monzcarro?”
“I do, your Excellency.”
“Ah, whatever would I do without you?” There was a trace of iron grey in his black hair since she’d seen him last, perhaps some deeper lines at the corners of his eyes, but his air of complete command was impressive as ever. He leaned forwards and kissed her on both cheeks, then whispered in her ear, “Ganmark can lead soldiers well enough, but for a man who sucks cocks he hasn’t the slightest sense of humour. Come, tell me of your victories in the open air.” He left one arm draped around her shoulders and guided her, past the sneering Prince Ario, through the open windows onto the high terrace.
The sun was climbing now, and the bright world was full of colour. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. Below, at the very bottom of a dizzy drop, the river wound through the wooded valley, autumn leaves pale green, burned orange, faded yellow, angry red, light glinting silver on fast-flowing water. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields-squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden crop. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail.
She narrowed her eyes against the stiff breeze, pushed some stray hair out of her face. “I never tire of this view.”
“How could you? It’s why I built this damn place. Here I can keep one eye always on my subjects, as a watchful parent should upon his children. Just to make sure they don’t hurt themselves while they play, you understand.”
“Your people are lucky to have such a just and caring father,” she lied smoothly.
“Just and caring.” Orso frowned thoughtfully towards the distant sea. “Do you think that is how history will remember me?”
Monza thought it incredibly unlikely. “What did Bialoveld say? ‘History is written by the victors.’ ”
