Shivers stepped around Monza’s shoulder, ducking under the lintel and straightening up, big shadow shifting across the wall behind him, his heavy sword drawn and gleaming down by his leg. “You get back.”
The farmer did as he was told, scared eyes fixed on that length of bright metal. “Who the hell are you?”
“Me?” snapped Monza. “This is my house, bastard.”
“Eleven of them,” said Friendly, slipping through the doorway on the other side.
As well as the two men there were two old women and a man even older, bent right over, gnarled hands dangling. There was a woman about Monza’s age, a baby in her arms and two little girls sat near her, staring with big eyes, like enough to be twins. A girl of maybe sixteen stood by the empty fireplace. She had a rough-forged knife out that she’d been gutting a fish with, her other arm across a boy, might’ve been ten or so, pushing him behind her shoulder.
Just a girl, looking out for her little brother.
“Put your sword away,” Monza said.
“Eh?”
“No one’s getting killed tonight.”
Shivers raised one heavy brow at her. “Now who’s the optimist?”
“Lucky for you I bought a big house.” The one with his arm in a sling looked like the head of the family, so she fixed her eye on him. “There’s room for all of us.”
He let his club drop. “We’re farmers from up the valley, just looking for somewhere safe. Place was like this when we found it, we didn’t steal nothing. We’ll be no trouble-”
“You’d better not be. This all of you?”
“My name’s Furli. That’s my wife-”
“I don’t need your names. You’ll stay down here, and you’ll stay out of our way. We’ll be upstairs, in the tower. You don’t come up there, you understand? That way no one gets hurt.”
He nodded, fear starting to mix with relief. “I understand.”
“Friendly, get the horses stabled, and that cart off the street.” Those farmers’ hungry faces-helpless, weak, needy-made Monza feel sick. She kicked a broken chair out of the way then started up the stairs, winding into the darkness, her legs stiff from a day in the saddle. Morveer caught up with her on the fourth landing, Cosca and Vitari just behind him, Day at the back, a trunk in her arms. Morveer had brought a lamp with him, light pooling on the underside of his unhappy face.
“Those peasants are a decided threat to us,” he murmured. “A problem easily solved, however. It will hardly be necessary to utilise the King of Poisons. A charitable contribution of a loaf of bread, dusted with Leopard Flower of course, and they would cease to-”
“No.”
He blinked. “If your intention is to leave them at liberty down there, I must most strongly protest at-”
“Protest away. Let’s see if I care a shit. You and Day can take that room.” As he turned to peer into the darkness, Monza snatched the lamp out of his hand. “Cosca, you’re on the second floor with Friendly. Vitari, seems like you get to sleep alone next door.”
“Sleeping alone.” She kicked some fallen plaster away across the boards. “Story of my life.”
“I will to my cart, then, and bring my equipment into the Butcher of Caprile’s hostel for displaced peasantry.” Morveer was shaking his head with disgust as he turned for the stairs.
“Do that,” snapped Monza at his back. She loitered for a moment, until she’d heard his boots scrape down a few flights and out of earshot. Until, apart from Cosca’s voice burbling away endlessly to Friendly downstairs, it was quiet on the landing. Then she followed Day into her room and gently pushed the door closed. “We need to talk.”
The girl had opened her trunk and was just getting a chunk of bread out of it. “What about?”
“The same thing we talked about in Westport. Your employer.”
“Picking at your nerves, is he?”
“Don’t tell me he isn’t picking at yours.”
“Every day for three years.”
“Not an easy man to work for, I reckon.” Monza took a step into the room, holding the girl’s eye. “Sooner or later a pupil has to step out from her master’s shadow, if she’s ever going to become the master herself.”
“That why you betrayed Cosca?”
That gave Monza a moment’s pause. “More or less. Sometimes you have to take a risk. Grasp the nettle. But then you’ve got much better reasons even than I had.” Said offhand, as though it was obvious.
Day’s turn to pause. “What reasons?”
Monza pretended to be surprised. “Well… because sooner or later Morveer will betray me, and go over to Orso.” She wasn’t sure of it, of course, but it was high time she guarded herself against the possibility.
“That so?” Day wasn’t smiling any longer.
“He doesn’t like the way I do things.”
“Who says I like the way you do things?”
“You don’t see it?” Day only narrowed her eyes, food, for once, forgotten in her hand. “If he goes to Orso, he’ll need someone to blame. For Ario. A scapegoat.”
Now she got the idea. “No,” she snapped. “He needs me.”
“How long have you been with him? Three years, did you say? Managed before, didn’t he? How many assistants do you think he’s had? See a lot of them around, do you?”
Day opened her mouth, blinked, then thoughtfully shut it.
“Maybe he’ll stick, and we’ll stay a happy family and part friends. Most poisoners are good sorts, when you get to know them.” Monza leaned down close to whisper. “But when he tells you he’s going over to Orso, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She left Day frowning at her chunk of bread, slipped quietly through the door and brushed it shut with her fingertips. She peered down the stairwell, but there was no sign of Morveer, only the handrail spiralling down into the shadows. She nodded to herself. The seed was planted now, she’d have to see what sprouted from it. She pushed her tired legs up the narrow steps to the top of the tower, through the creaking door and into the high chamber under the roof, faint sound of rain drumming above.
The room where she and Benna had spent a happy month together, in the midst of some dark years. Away from the wars. Laughing, talking, watching the world from the wide windows. Pretending at how life might have been if they’d never taken up warfare, and somehow made it rich some other way. She found she was smiling, despite herself. The little glass figure still gleamed in its niche above the door. Their household spirit. She remembered Benna grinning over his shoulder as he pushed it up there with his fingertips.
So it can watch over you while you sleep, the way you’ve always watched over me.
Her smile leaked away, and she walked to the window and dragged open one of the flaking shutters. Rain had thrown a grey veil across the dark city, pelting down now, spattering against the sill. A stroke of distant lightning picked out the tangle of wet roofs below for an instant, the grey outlines of other towers looming from the murk. A few moments later the thunder crackled sullen and muffled across the city.
“Where do I sleep?” Shivers stood in the doorway, arm up on the frame and some blankets over one shoulder.
“You?” She glanced up to the little glass statue above his head, then back to Shivers’ face. Maybe she’d had high standards, long ago, but back then she’d had Benna, and both her hands, and an army behind her. She had nothing behind her now but six well-paid misfits, a good sword and a lot of money. A general should keep her distance from her troops, maybe, and a wanted woman from everyone, but Monza wasn’t a general anymore. Benna was dead, and she needed something. You can weep over your misfortunes, or you can pick yourself up and make the best of things, shit though they may be. She elbowed the shutter closed, sank down wincing on the bed and set the lamp on the floor.
“You’re in here, with me.”
His brows went up. “I am?”
“That’s right, optimist. Your lucky night.” She leaned back on her elbows, old bed-frame creaking, and stuck one foot up at him. “Now shut the door and help me get my fucking boots off.”
