thighs, fingers into the short hair, started rubbing at her with his thumb.
“Gently!” She slapped his hand away and slid her own down in its place, middle finger working slowly round and round. “You’re not trying to crack a nut, fool.”
“Your nut, your business, I reckon.” His cock slid out as he worked his way forwards, onto his arms above her, but she slid it back in easy enough. They started finding a rhythm, patient but building, bit by bit.
She kept her eyes open, looking in his face, and she could see the gleam of his in the darkness looking back. Both of them with teeth bared, breathing hard. He opened his mouth to meet hers, then moved his head away as she craned up to kiss him, always just out of reach until she had to slump back flat with a gasp that sent a warm shiver through her.
She slid her right hand onto his backside, squeezing at one buttock as it tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. Faster now, damp skin slap-slapping, and she pushed her twisted hand round further, down into the crack of his arse. She strained her head up off the bed again, biting at his lips, at his teeth, and he nipped at her, grunting in his throat and her grunting back. He came down onto one elbow, his other hand sliding up over her ribs, squeezing hard at one breast then the other, almost painful.
Creak, creak, creak, and her feet were off the bed and in the air, his hand tangled in her hair, fingers rubbing at the coins under her skin, dragging her head back, her face up against his, and she sucked his tongue out of his mouth and into hers, bit at it, licked at it. Deep, slobbery, hungry, snarling kisses. Hardly kisses at all. She pushed her finger into his arsehole, up to the first knuckle.
“What the fuck?” He broke clear of her as if she’d slapped him in the face, stopped moving, still and tense above her. She jerked her right hand back, left still busy between her legs.
“Alright,” she hissed. “Doesn’t make you less of a man, you know. Your arse, your business. I’ll keep clear of it in-”
“Not that. D’you hear something?”
Monza couldn’t hear anything but her own fast breath and the faint sound of her fingers still sliding wetly up and down. She pushed her hips back up against him. “Come on. There’s nothing but-”
The door crashed open, wood flying from the splintered lock. Shivers scrambled from the bed, tangled with the blanket. Monza was dazzled by lamplight, caught a glimpse of bright metal, armour, a shout and a sword swung.
There was a metallic thud, Shivers gave a squawk and went down hard on the boards. Monza felt spots of blood patter on her cheek. She had the hilt of the Calvez in her hand. Right hand, stupidly, by force of habit, blade a few inches drawn.
“No you don’t.” A woman coming through the ruins of the door, loaded flatbow levelled, hair scraped back from a soft-looking round face. A man turned from standing over Shivers and towards Monza, sword in hand. She could scarcely see more of him than the outline of his armour, his helmet. Another soldier stomped through the door, lantern in one fist and an axe in the other, curved blade gleaming. Monza let her twisted fingers open and the Calvez clattered down beside the bed half-drawn.
“That’s better,” said the woman.
Shivers gave a groan, tried to push himself up, eyes narrowed against the light, blood trickling down his face from a cut in his hair. Must have been clubbed with the flat. The one with the axe stepped forwards and swung a boot into his ribs, thud, thud, made him grunt, curled up naked against the wall. A fourth soldier walked in, some dark cloth over one arm.
“Captain Langrier.”
“What did you find?” asked the woman, handing him the flatbow.
“This, and some others.”
“Looks like a Talinese uniform.” She held the jacket up so Monza could see it. “Got anything to say about this?”
The jolt of cold shock was fading, and an even frostier fear was pressing in fast behind it. These were Salier’s soldiers. She’d been so fixed on killing Ganmark, so fixed on Orso’s army, she hadn’t spared a thought for the other side. They’d got her attention now, alright. She felt a sudden need for another smoke, so bad she was nearly sick. “It’s not what you think,” she managed to croak out, acutely aware she was stark naked and smelled sharply of fucking.
“How do you know what I think?”
Another soldier with a big drooping moustache appeared in the doorway. “A load of bottles and suchlike in one of the rooms. Didn’t fancy touching ’em. Looked like poison to me.”
“Poison, you say, Sergeant Pello?” Langrier stretched her head to one side and rubbed at her neck. “Well, that is damn suspicious.”
“I can explain it.” Monza’s mouth was dry. She knew she couldn’t. Not in any way these bastards would believe.
“You’ll get your chance. Back at the palace, though. Bind ’em up.”
Shivers grimaced as the axeman dragged his wrists behind his back and snapped manacles shut on them, hauled him to his feet. One of the others grabbed Monza’s arm, twisted it roughly behind her as he jammed the cuffs on.
“Ah! Mind my hand!” One of them dragged her off the bed, shoved her stumbling towards the door and she nearly slipped, getting her balance back without much dignity. There wasn’t much dignity to be had in all of this. Benna’s little glass statue watched from its niche. So much for household spirits. “Can we get some clothes at least?”
“I don’t see why.” They hauled her out onto the landing, into the light of another lantern. “Wait there.” Langrier squatted down, frowning at the zigzag scars on Monza’s hip and along her thigh, neat pink dots of the pulled stitches almost faded. She prodded at them with one thumb as though she was checking a joint of meat in a butcher’s for rot. “You ever seen marks like that before, Pello?”
“No.”
She looked up at Monza. “How did you get these?”
“I was shaving my cunt and the razor slipped.”
The woman spluttered with laughter. “I like that. That’s funny.”
Pello was laughing too. “That is funny.”
“Good thing you’ve got a sense of humour.” Langrier stood up, brushing dust from her knees. “You’ll need that later.” She thumped Monza on the side of the head with an open hand and sent her tumbling down the stairs. She fell on her shoulder with a jarring impact, the steps battered her back, skinned her knees, her legs went flying over. She squealed and grunted as the wood drove the air out of her, then the wall cracked her in the nose and knocked her sprawling, one leg buckled against the plaster. She lifted her head, groggy as a drunkard, the stairway still reeling. Her mouth tasted of blood. She spat it out. It filled up again.
“Fuh,” she grunted.
“No more jokes? We’ve got a few more flights if you’re still feeling witty.”
She wasn’t. She let herself be dragged up, grunting as pain ground at her battered shoulder-joint.
“What’s this?” She felt the ring pulled roughly off her middle finger, saw Langrier smiling as she held her hand up to the light, ruby glinting.
“Looks good on you,” said Pello. Monza kept her silence. If the worst she lost out of this was Benna’s ring, she’d count herself lucky indeed.
There were more soldiers on the floors below, rooting through the tower, dragging gear from the chests and boxes. Glass crunched and tinkled as they upended one of Morveer’s cases onto the floor. Day was sitting on a bed nearby, yellow hair hanging over her face, hands bound behind her. Monza met her eye for a moment, and they stared at each other, but there wasn’t much pity to spare. At least she’d been lucky enough to have her shift on when they came.
They shoved Monza down into the kitchen and she leaned against the wall, breathing fast, stark naked but past caring. Furli was down there, and his brother too. Langrier walked over to them and pulled a purse from her back pocket.
“Looks like you were right. Spies.” She counted coins out into the farmer’s waiting palm. “Five scales for each of them. Duke Salier thanks you for your diligence, citizen. You say there were more?”
“Four others.”
