“Of course not. Damn those Gurkish bastards. Good journey to you, Sulfur.” Ario gave the slightest bow of his head.
“Good journey,” growled Foscar, as Sulfur turned for the gate.
Cosca jammed his hat back on his head. “Well, your two honours are certainly most welcome! Please, enjoy the entertainments! Everything is at your disposal!” He sidled closer, flashing his most mischievous grin. “The top floor of the building has been reserved for you and your brother. Your Highness will find, I rather think, a particularly surprising diversion in the Royal Suite.”
“There, brother. Let us see if, in due course, we can divert you from your cares.” Ario frowned towards the band. “By the heavens, could that woman not have found some better music?”
The thickening throng parted to let the brothers pass. Several sneering gentlemen followed in their wake, as well as four more of the grim men with their swords and armour. Cosca frowned after their shining backplates as they stepped through the door into the gaming hall.
Nicomo Cosca felt no fear, that was a fact. But a measure of sober concern at all these well-armed men seemed only prudent. Monza had asked for control, after all. He hopped over to the entrance and touched one of the guards outside upon his arm. “No more in tonight. We are full.” He shut the gate in the man’s surprised face, turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Prince Ario’s friend Master Sulfur would have the honour of being the last man to pass through the front gate tonight.
He flung one arm up at the band. “Something livelier lads, strike up a tune! We are here to entertain!”
Morveer knelt, hunched in the darkness of the attic, peering from the eaves of the roof into the courtyard far below. Men in ostentatious attire formed knots that swelled, dissolved, shifted and flowed in and out through the two doors that led into the building. They glittered and gleamed in pools of lamplight. Ribald exclamations and hushed chatter, poor music and good-natured laughter floated up through the night, but Morveer was not inclined to celebrate.
“Why so many?” he whispered. “We were anticipating less than half this number. Something… is awry.”
A gout of incandescent flame went up into the frigid night and there was an eruption of clapping. That imbecile Ronco, endangering his own existence and that of every other person in the yard. Morveer slowly shook his head. If that was a good idea then he was the Emperor of Day hissed at him, and he fumbled his way back across the rafters, old wood creaking gently, and applied his eye to one of the holes. “Someone’s coming.”
A group of eight persons emerged from the stairway, all of them masked. Four were evidently guards, armoured in highly polished breastplates. Two were even more evidently women employed by Cardotti’s. It was the final two men that were of interest to Morveer.
“Ario and Foscar,” whispered Day.
“So it would undoubtedly appear.” Orso’s sons exchanged a brief word while their guards took up positions flanking the two doors. Then Ario bowed low, his snigger echoing faintly around the attic. He swaggered down the corridor to the second door, one of the women on each arm, leaving his brother to approach the Royal Suite.
Morveer frowned. “Something is most seriously awry.”
It was an idiot’s idea of what a king’s bedchamber might look like. Everything was overpatterned, gaudy with gold and silver thread. The bed was a monstrous four-poster suffocated with swags of crimson silk. An obese cabinet burst with coloured liquor bottles. The ceiling was crusted with shadowy mouldings and an enormous, tinkling chandelier that hung too low. The fireplace was carved like a pair of naked women holding up a plate of fruit, all in green marble.
There was a huge canvas in a gleaming frame on one wall-a woman with an improbable bosom bathing in a stream, and seeming to enjoy it a lot more than was likely. Monza never had understood why getting out a tit or two made for a better painting. But painters seemed to think it did, so tits is what you got.
“That bloody music’s giving me a headache,” Vitari grumbled, hooking a finger under her corset and scratching at her side.
Monza jerked her head sideways. “That fucking bed’s giving me a headache. Especially against that wallpaper.” A particularly vile shade of azure blue and turquoise stripes with gilt stars splashed across them.
“Enough to drive a woman to smoking.” Vitari prodded at the ivory pipe lying on the marbled table beside the bed, a lump of husk in a cut-glass jar beside it. Monza hardly needed it drawn to her attention. For the last hour her eyes had rarely been off it.
“Mind on the job,” she snapped, jerking her eyes away and back towards the door.
“Always.” Vitari hitched up her skirt. “Not easy with these bloody clothes. How does anyone-”
“Shhh.” Footsteps, coming down the corridor outside.
“Our guests. You ready?”
The grips of the two knives jabbed at the small of Monza’s back as she shifted her hips. “Bit late for second thoughts, no?”
“Unless you’ve decided you’d rather fuck them instead.”
“I think we’ll stick to murder.” Monza slid her right hand up the window frame in what she hoped was an alluring pose. Her heart was thumping, the blood surging painfully loud in her ears.
The door creaked ever so slowly open, and a man stepped through into the room. He was tall and dressed all in white, his golden mask in the shape of half a rising sun. He had an impeccably trimmed beard, which failed to disguise a ragged scar down his chin. Monza blinked at him. He wasn’t Ario. He wasn’t even Foscar.
“Shit,” she heard Vitari breathe.
Recognition hit Monza like spit in the face. It wasn’t Orso’s son, but his son-in-law. None other than the great peacemaker himself, his August Majesty, the High King of the Union.
“Ready?” asked Cosca.
Shivers cleared his throat one more time. It had felt like there was something stuck in it ever since he’d walked into this damn place. “Bit late for second thoughts, no?”
The old mercenary’s mad grin spread even wider. “Unless you’ve decided you’d rather fuck them instead. Gentlemen! Ladies! Your attention, please!” The band stopped playing and the violin began to hack out a single, sawing note. It didn’t make Shivers feel much better.
Cosca jabbed with his cane, clearing the guests out of the circle they’d marked in the middle of the yard. “Step back, my friends, for you are in the gravest danger! One of the great moments of history is about to be acted out before your disbelieving eyes!”
“When do I get a fuck?” someone called, to ragged laughter.
Cosca leaped forwards, nearly took the man’s eye out on the end of his cane. “Once someone dies!” The drum had joined in now, whack, whack, whack. Folk pressed round the circle by flickering torchlight. A ring of masks-birds and beasts, soldiers and clowns, leering skulls and grinning devils. Men’s faces underneath-drunk, bored, angry, curious. At the back, Barti and Kummel teetered on each other’s shoulders, whichever was on top clapping along with the drumbeats.
“For your education, edification and enjoyment…” Shivers hadn’t a clue what that meant. “Cardotti’s House of Leisure presents to you…” He took a rough breath, hefting sword and shield, and pushed through into the circle. “The infamous duel between Fenris the Feared…” Cosca flicked his cane out towards Greylock as he lumbered into the circle from the other side. “And Logen Ninefingers!”
“He’s got ten fingers!” someone called, making a ripple of drunken laughter.
Shivers didn’t join ’em. Greylock might’ve been a long way less frightening than the real Feared had been, but he was a long way clear of a comforting sight still, big as a house with that mask of black iron over his face, left side of his shaved head and his great left arm painted blue. His club looked awful heavy and very dangerous, right then, clutched in those big fists. Shivers had to keep telling himself they were on the same side. Just pretending
