“Absolutely and entirely not,” he lied, suppressing a shiver at the very remembrance of those midnight eyes. “My dyspepsia is the result of my ongoing difference of opinion with our employer, the notorious Butcher of Caprile, the ever-contrary Murcatto! I simply cannot seem to find the correct approach with that woman! However cordially I behave, however spotless my intentions, she bears it ill!”
“She’s somewhat prickly, true.”
“In my opinion she passes beyond prickly and enters the arena of… sharp,” he finished, lamely.
“Well, the betrayal, the being thrown down the mountain, the dead brother and all-”
“Explanations, not excuses! We all have suffered painful reverses! I declare, I am half-tempted to abandon her to her inevitable fate and seek out fresh employment.” He snorted with laughter at a sudden thought. “With Duke Orso, perhaps!”
Day looked up sharply. “You’re joking.”
It had, in fact, been intended as a witticism, for Castor Morveer was not the man to abandon an employer once he had accepted a contract. Certain standards of behaviour had to be observed, in his business more than any other. But it amused him to explore the notion further, counting off the points one by one upon his outstretched digits. “A man who can undoubtedly afford my services. A man who undoubtedly requires my services. A man who has proved himself unencumbered by the slightest troublesome moral qualm.”
“A man with a record of pushing his employees down mountains.”
Morveer dismissed it. “One should never be foolish enough to trust the sort of person who would hire a poisoner. In that he is no worse an employer than any other. Why, it is a profound wonder the thought did not occur sooner!”
“But… we killed his son.”
“Bah! Such difficulties are easily explained away when two men find they need each other.” He airily waved one hand. “Some invention will suffice. Some wretched scapegoat can always be found to shoulder the blame.”
She nodded slowly, mouth set hard. “A scapegoat. Of course.”
“A wretched one.” One less mutilated Northman in the world would be no loss to posterity. Nor one less insane convict or abrasive torturer, for that matter. He was almost warming to the notion. “But I daresay for the time being we are stuck with Murcatto and her futile quest for revenge. Revenge. I swear, is there a more pointless, destructive, unsatisfying motive in all the world?”
“I thought motives weren’t our business,” observed Day, “only jobs and the pay.”
“Correct, my dear, very correct, every motive is a pure one that necessitates our services. You see straight to the heart of the matter as always, as though the matter were entirely transparent. Whatever would I do without you?” He came smiling around the apparatus. “How are our preparations proceeding?”
“Oh, I know what to do.”
“Good. Very good. Of course you do. You learned from a master.”
She bowed her head. “And I marked your lessons well.”
“Most excellent well.” He leaned down to flick at a condenser, watched the Larync essence dripping slowly down into the retort. “It is vital to be exhaustively prepared for any and every eventuality. Caution first, always, of- Ah!” He frowned down at his forearm. A tiny speck of red swelled, became a dot of blood. “What…” Day backed slowly away from him, an expression of the most peculiar intensity on her face. She held a mounted needle in her hand.
“Someone to take the blame?” she snarled at him. “Scapegoat, am I? Fuck yourself, bastard!”
Come on, come on, come on.” Faithful was pissing again, stood by his horse, back to Shivers, shaking his knees around. “Come on, come on. Bloody years catching up on me, that’s what this is.”
“That or your dark deeds,” said Swolle.
“I’ve done nothing black enough to deserve this shit, surely. You feel like you never had to go so bad in your life, then when you finally get your prick out, you end up stood here in the wind for an age of… ah… ah… there’s the fucker!” He leaned backwards, showing off his big bald spot. A brief spatter, then another. One more, he worked his shoulders around as he shook the drips off, and started lacing up again.
“That’s it?” asked Swolle.
“What’s your interest?” snapped the general. “To bottle it? Years catching up on me is all it is.” He picked his way up the slope bent over, heavy red cloak held out of the mud in one hand, and squatted down next to Shivers. “Right then. Right then. That’s the place?”
“That’s the place.” The farm sat at the end of an open paddock, in the midst of a sea of grey wheat, under the grey sky, clouds smudged with watery dawn. Faint light flickered at the narrow windows of the barn, but no more signs of life. Shivers rubbed his fingers slowly against his palms. He’d never done much treachery. Nothing so sharply cut as this, leastways, and it was making him nervy.
“Looks peaceful enough.” Faithful ran a slow hand over his white stubble. “Swolle, you get a dozen men and take ’em round the side, out of sight, into that stand of trees down there, get on the flank. Then if they see us and make a run for it you can finish up.”
“Right y’are, General. Nice and simple, eh?”
“Nothing worse than too much plan. More there is to remember, more there is to make a shit of. Don’t need to tell you not to make a shit of it, do I, Swolle?”
“Me? No, sir. Into the trees, then if I see anyone running, charge. Just like at the High Bank.”
“Except Murcatto’s on the other side now, right?”
“Right. Fucking evil bitch.”
“Now, now,” said Faithful. “Some respect. You were happy enough to clap for her when she brought you victories, you can clap for her now. Shame things have come to this, is all. Nothing else for it. Don’t mean there can’t be some respect.”
“Right. Sorry.” Swolle paused for a moment. “Sure it wouldn’t be better to try and creep down there on foot? I mean, we can’t ride into that farmhouse, can we?”
Faithful gave him a long look. “Did they pick a new captain general while I was away, and are you it?”
“Well, no, ’course not, just-”
“Creeping up ain’t my style, Swolle. Knowing how often you wash, more than likely Murcatto’d fucking smell you before we got within a hundred strides, and be ready. No, we’ll ride down there and spare my knees the wear. We can always get down once we’ve given the place the check over. And if she’s got any surprises for us, well, I’d rather be in my saddle.” He frowned sideways at Shivers. “You see a problem with that, boy?”
“Not me.” From what Shivers had seen he reckoned Faithful was one o’ those men make a good second and a poor chief. Lots of bones but no imagination. Looked like he’d got stuck to one way of doing things over the years and had to do it now whether it fit the job or not. But he weren’t about to say so. Strong leaders might like it when someone brings ’em a better idea, but weak ones never do. “You reckon I could get my axe back, though?”
Faithful grinned. “’Course you can. Just as soon as I see Murcatto’s dead body. Let’s go.” He nearly tripped on his cloak as he turned for the horses, angrily dragged it up and tossed it over his shoulder. “Bloody thing. Knew I should’ve got a shorter one.”
Shivers took one last look at the farm before he followed, shaking his head. There’s nothing worse’n too much plan, that’s true. But too little comes in close behind.
Morveer blinked. “But…” He took a slow step towards Day. His ankle wobbled and he slumped sideways against the table, knocking over a flask and making the fizzing contents spill across the wood. He clutched one hand to his throat, his skin flushing, burning. He knew already what she must have done, the realisation spreading out frigid through his veins. He knew already what the consequences would have to be. “The King…” he rasped, “of Poisons?”
“What else? Caution first, always.”
He grimaced, at the meagre pain of the tiny prick in his arm, and at the far deeper wound of bitter betrayal besides. He coughed, fell forwards onto his knees, one hand stretching, trembling upwards. “But-”
