was all. Just pretending.
“You gentlemen would be well advised to make room!” shouted Cosca, and the three Gurkish dancers pranced round the edge of the circle, black-cat masks over their black faces, herding the guests towards the walls. “There may be blood!”
“There’d better be!” Another wave of laughter. “I didn’t come here to watch a pair of idiots dance with each other!”
The onlookers whooped, whistled, booed. Mostly booed. Shivers somehow doubted his plan-hop around the circle for a few minutes flailing at the air, then stab Greylock between his arm and his side while the big man burst a bladder of pig blood-was going to get these fuckers clapping. He remembered the real duel, outside the walls of Carleon with the fate of all the North hanging on the outcome. The cold morning, the breath smoking on the air, the blood in the circle. The Carls gathered round the edge, shaking their shields, screaming and roaring. He wondered what those men would’ve made of this nonsense. Life took you down some strange paths, alright.
“Begin!” shouted Cosca, springing back into the crowd.
Greylock gave a mighty roar and came charging forwards, swinging the club and swinging it hard. Gave Shivers the bastard of a shock. He got his shield up in time, but the weight of the blow knocked him clean over, sliding across the ground on his arse, left arm struck numb. He sprawled out, all tangled up with his sword, nicked his eyebrow on the edge. Lucky not to get the point in his eye. He rolled, the club crashing down where he’d lain a moment before and sending stone chips flying. Even as he was clambering up, Greylock was at him again, looking like he meant deadly business, and Shivers had to scramble away with all the dignity of a cat in a wolf-pen. He didn’t remember this being what they discussed. Seemed the big man meant to give these bastards a show to remember after all.
“Kill him!” Someone laughed.
“Give us some blood, you idiots!”
Shivers tightened his hand round the grip of the sword. He suddenly had a bad feeling. Even worse’n before.
Rolling dice normally made Friendly feel calm, but not tonight. He had a bad feeling. Even worse than before. He watched them tumble, clatter, spin, their clicking seeming to dig at his clammy skin, and come to rest.
“Two and four,” he said.
“We see the numbers!” snapped the man with the mask like a crescent moon. “Damn dice hate me!” He tossed them angrily over, bouncing against the polished wood.
Friendly frowned as he scooped them up and rolled them gently back. “Five and three. House wins.”
“It seems to be making a habit of it,” growled the one with the mask like a ship, and some of their friends muttered angrily. They were all of them drunk. Drunk and stupid. The house always makes a habit of winning, which is why it hosts games of chance in the first place. But it was hardly Friendly’s job to educate them on that point. Someone at the far end of the room cried out with shrill delight as the lucky wheel brought up their number. A few of the card players clapped with mild disdain.
“Bloody dice.” Crescent Moon slurped from his glass of wine as Friendly carefully gathered up the counters and added them to his own swelling stacks. He was having trouble breathing, the air was so thick with strange smells-perfume, and sweat, and wine, and smoke. He realised his mouth was hanging open, and snapped it shut.
The King of the Union looked from Monza, to Vitari, and back-handsome, regal and most extremely unwelcome. Monza realised her mouth was hanging open, and snapped it shut.
“I mean no disrespect, but one of you will be more than adequate and I have… always had a weakness for dark hair.” He gestured to the door. “I hope I will not offend by asking you to leave us. I will make sure you are paid.”
“How generous.” Vitari glanced sideways and Monza gave her the tiniest shrug, her mind flipping around like a frog in hot water as it sought desperately for a way clear of this self-made trap. Vitari pushed herself away from the wall and strutted to the door. She brushed the front of the king’s coat with the back of her hand on the way past. “Curse my red-haired mother,” she sneered. The door clicked shut.
“A most…” The king cleared his throat. “Pleasing room.”
“You’re easily pleased.”
He snorted with laughter. “My wife would not say so.”
“Few wives say good things about their husbands. That’s why they come to us.”
“You misunderstand. I have her blessing. My wife is expecting our third child and therefore… well, that hardly interests you.”
“I’ll seem interested whatever you say. That’s what I’m paid for.”
“Of course.” The king rubbed his hands somewhat nervously together. “Perhaps a drink.”
She nodded towards the cabinet. “There they are.”
“Do you need one?”
“No.”
“No, of course, why would you?” Wine gurgled from the bottle. “I suppose this is nothing new for you.”
“No.” Though in fact it was hard to remember the last time she’d been disguised as a whore in a room with a king. She had two choices. Bed him, or murder him. Neither one held much appeal. Killing Ario would make trouble enough. To kill a king-even Orso’s son-in-law-would be asking for a great deal more.
When faced with two dark paths, Stolicus wrote, a general should always choose the lighter. She doubted these were quite the circumstances he’d had in mind, but that changed nothing. She slid one hand around the nearest bedpost, lowered herself until she was sitting awkwardly on the garish covers. Then her eye fell on the husk pipe.
When faced with two dark paths, Farans wrote, a general should always find a third.
“You seem nervous,” she murmured.
The king had made it as far as the foot of the bed. “I must confess it’s been a long time since I visited… a place like this one.”
“Something to calm you, then.” She turned her back on him before he had the chance to say no, and began to fill the pipe. It didn’t take her long to make it ready. She did it every night, after all.
“Husk? I’m not sure that I-”
“You need your wife’s blessing for this too?” She held it out to him.
“Of course not.”
She stood, lifting the lamp, holding his eye, and set the flame to the bowl. His first breath in he coughed out straight away. The second not much later. The third he managed to hold, then blow out in a plume of white smoke.
“Your turn,” he croaked, pressing the pipe back into her hand as he sank down on the bed, smoke still curling up from the bowl and tickling her nose.
“I…” Oh, how she wanted it. She was trembling with her need for it. “I…” Right there, right in her hand. But this was no time to indulge herself. She needed to stay in control.
His mouth curled up in a gormless grin. “Whose blessing do you need?” he croaked. “I promise I won’t tell a… oh.”
She was already setting the flame to the grey-brown flakes, sucking the smoke in deep, feeling it burn at her lungs.
“Damn boots,” the king was saying as he tried to drag his highly polished footwear off. “Don’t bloody fit me. You pay… a hundred marks
… for some boots… you expect them to-” One flew off and clattered into the wall, leaving a bright trace behind it. Monza was finding it hard to stand up.
“Again.” She held the pipe out.
