“You’re General Murcatto.” The man had a twist to his grey mouth that came somewhere near a smile. “And you’re expected. I’ll need the sword, though.” She frowned as she handed it over, liking the feel of this less than if they’d kicked her down the street.
There was a great pool in the marble hall beyond, surrounded by tall columns, murky water smelling strongly of rot. Her old enemy Grand Duke Rogont was poring over a map on a folding table, in a sober grey uniform, lips thoughtfully pursed. A dozen officers clustered about him, enough gold braid between them to rig a carrack. A couple looked up as she made her way around the fetid pond towards them.
“It’s her,” she heard one say, his lip well curled.
“Mur… cat… to,” another, as if the very name was poison. No doubt it was to them. She’d been making fools of these very men for the past few years and the more of a fool a man is, the less he cares to look like one. Still, the general with the smallest numbers should remain always on the offensive, Stolicus wrote. So she walked up unhurried, the thumb of her bandaged left hand hooked carelessly in her belt, as if this was her bath and she was the one with all the swords.
“If it isn’t the Prince of Prudence, Duke Rogont. Well met, your Cautiousness. A proud-looking set of comrades you’ve got here, for men who’ve spent seven years retreating. Still, at least you’re not retreating today.” She let it sink in for a moment. “Oh, wait. You are.”
That forced a few chins to haughtily rise, a nostril or two to flare. But the dark eyes of Rogont himself shifted up from the map without any rush, a little tired, perhaps, but still irritatingly handsome and at ease. “General Murcatto, what a pleasure! I wish we could have met after a great battle, preferably with you as a crestfallen prisoner, but my victories have been rather thin on the ground.”
“Rare as summer snows.”
“And you, so cloaked in glories. I feel quite naked under your victorious glare.” He peered towards the back of the hall. “But wherever are your all-conquering Thousand Swords now?”
Monza sucked her teeth. “Faithful Carpi’s borrowed them from me.”
“Without asking? How… rude. I fear you are too much soldier and not enough politician. I fear I am the opposite. Words may hold more power than swords, as Juvens said, but I have discovered to my cost that there are times when there is no substitute for pointy metal.”
“These are the Years of Blood.”
“Indeed they are. We are all the prisoners of circumstance, and circumstances have left me once again with no other choice but bitter retreat. The noble Lirozio, Duke of Puranti and owner of this wonderful bath, was as staunch and warlike an ally as could be imagined when Duke Orso’s power was long leagues away on the other side of the great walls of Musselia. You should have heard him gnash his teeth, his sword never so eager to spring forth and spill hot blood.”
“Men love to talk about fighting.” Monza let her eyes wander over the sullen faces of Rogont’s advisors. “Some like to dress for it, too. Getting blood on the uniforms is a different matter.”
A couple of angry head-tosses from the peacocks, but Rogont only smiled. “My own sad realisation. Now Musselia’s great walls are breached, thanks to you, Borletta fallen, thanks to you, and Visserine burned too. The army of Talins, ably assisted by your erstwhile comrades, the Thousand Swords, are picking the country clean on Lirozio’s very doorstep. The brave duke finds his enthusiasm for drum and bugle much curtailed. Powerful men are as inconstant as the shifting water. I should have picked weaker allies.”
“Bit late for that.”
The duke puffed out his cheeks. “Too late, too late, shall be my epitaph. At Sweet Pines I arrived but two days tardy, and rash Salier had fought and lost without me. So Caprile was left helpless before your well- documented wrath.” That was a fool’s version of the story, but Monza kept it to herself, for now. “At Musselia I arrived with all my power, prepared to hold the great walls and block the Gap of Etris against you, and found you had stolen the city the day before, picked it clean already and now held the walls against me.” More injury to the truth, but Monza kept her peace. “Then at the High Bank I found myself unavoidably detained by the late General Ganmark, while the also late Duke Salier, quite determined not to be fooled by you a second time, was fooled by you a second time and his army scattered like chaff on a stiff wind. So Borletta…” He stuck his tongue between his lips, jerked his thumb towards the floor and blew a loud farting sound. “So brave Duke Cantain…” He drew one finger across his throat and blew another. “Too late, too late. Tell me, General Murcatto, how come you are always first to the field?”
“I rise early, shit before daybreak, check I’m pointed in the right direction and let nothing stop me. That and I actually try to get there.”
“Your meaning?” demanded a young man at Rogont’s elbow, his face even sourer than the rest.
“My meaning?” she parroted, goggling like an idiot, and then to the duke himself, “Is that you could have reached Sweet Pines on time but chose to dither, knowing proud, fat Salier would piss before his trousers were down and more than likely waste all his strength whether he won or not. He lost, and looked the fool, and you the wiser partner, just as you hoped.” It was Rogont’s turn to stay carefully silent. “Two seasons later you could have reached the Gap in time and held it against the world, but it suited you to delay, and let me teach the proud Musselians the lesson you wanted them to learn. Namely to be humble before your prudent Excellency.”
The whole chamber was very still as her voice grated on. “When did you realise time was running out? That you’d delayed so much you’d let your allies wane too weak, let Orso wax too strong? No doubt you would have liked to make it to the High Bank for once on time, but Ganmark got in your way. As far as playing the good ally, by that time it was
…” She leaned forwards and whispered it. “ Too late. All your policy was making sure you were the strongest partner when the League of Eight won, so you could be the first among them. A grand notion, and carefully managed. Except, of course, Orso has won, and the League of Eight…” She stuck her tongue between her lips and blew a long fart at the assembled flower of manhood. “So much for too late, fuckers.”
The shrillest of the brood stepped towards her, fists clenched. “I will not listen to one word more of this, you… you devil! My father died at Sweet Pines!”
It seemed everyone had their own wrongs to avenge, but Monza had too many wounds of her own to be much stung by other people’s. “Thank you,” she said.
“What?”
“Since your father was presumably among my enemies, and the aim of a battle is to kill them, I take his death as a compliment. I shouldn’t have to explain that to a soldier.”
His face had turned a blotchy mixture of pink and white. “If you were a man I’d kill you where you stand.”
“If you were a man, you mean. Still, since I took your father, it’s only fair I give you something in trade.” She curled her tongue and blew spit in his face.
He came at her clumsily, and with his hands, just as she’d guessed he would. Any man who needs to be worked up to it that hard isn’t likely to be too fearful when he finally gets there. She was ready, dodged around him, grabbed the top and bottom rims of his gilded breastplate, used his own weight to swing him, caught his toe with one well-placed boot. She grabbed the hilt of his sword as he stumbled helplessly past, bent almost double, part running and part falling, and whipped it from his belt. He squawked as he splashed into the pool, sending up a fountain of shining spray, and she spun round, blade at the ready.
Rogont rolled his eyes. “Oh, for pity’s-” His men bundled past, all fumbling their swords out, cursing, nearly knocking the table over in their haste to get at her. “Less steel, gentlemen, if you please, less steel!” The officer had surfaced now, or at least was fighting to, splashing and floundering, hauled down by the weight of his ornamental armour. Two of Rogont’s other attendants hurried to drag him from the pool while the rest shuffled towards Monza, jostling at each other in their efforts to stab her first.
“Shouldn’t you be the ones retreating?” she hissed as she backed away past the pillars.
The nearest jabbed at her. “Die, you damned-”
“Enough!” roared Rogont. “Enough! Enough!” His men scowled like naughty children called to account. “No swordplay in the bath, for pity’s sake! Will my shame never end?” He gave a long sigh, then waved an arm. “Leave us, all of you!”
His foremost attendant’s moustache bristled with horror. “But, your Excellency, with this… foul creature?”
“Never fear, I will survive.” He arched one eyebrow at them. “I can swim. Now out, before someone hurts
