Rogont slowly shook his head. 'That officer of mine really should have drawn and run you through.'

'Is that what you'd have done?'

'Oh, pity, no.' He looked back to his charts. 'I'd have asked for more spit.'

Neither Rich nor Poor Shenkt hummed to himself as he walked down the shabby corridor, his footfalls making not the slightest sound. The exact tune always somehow eluded him. A nagging fragment of something his sister sang when he was a child. He could see the sunlight still, through her hair, the window at her back, face in shadow. All long ago, now. All faded, like cheap paints in the sun. He had never been much of a singer himself. But he hummed, at least, and imagined his sister's voice singing along with him, and that was some comfort.

He put his knife away, and the carved bird too, almost finished now, though the beak was giving him some trouble and he did not wish to break it by rushing. Patience. As vital to the wood-carver as it is to the assassin. He stopped before the door. Soft, pale pine, full of knots, badly jointed, light shining through a split. He wished, sometimes, that his work took him to better places. He raised one boot, and burst the lock apart with a single kick.

Eight sets of hands leaped to weapons as the door splintered from its hinges. Eight hard faces snapped towards him, seven men and a woman. Shenkt recognised most of them. They had been among the kneeling half-circle in Orso's throne room. Killers, sent after Prince Ario's murderers. Comrades, of a kind, in the hunt. If the flies on a carcass can be said to be comrades to the lion that made the kill. He had not expected such as these to beat him to his quarry, but he was long past being surprised by the turns life took. His twisted like a snake in its death throes.

'Have I come at a bad time?' he asked.

'It's him.'

'The one who wouldn't kneel.'

'Shenkt.' This last from the man who had blocked his path in Orso's throne room. The one he had advised to pray. Shenkt hoped he had taken the advice, but did not think it likely. A couple of them relaxed when they recognised his face, pushed back their half-drawn blades, thinking him one of their number.

'Well, well.' A man with a pockmarked face and long, black hair seemed to be in charge. He reached out and gently pushed the woman's bow towards the floor with one finger. 'My name's Malt. You're just in time to help us bring them in.'

'Them?'

'The ones his Excellency Duke Orso's paying us to find, who do you think? Over there, in the smoke-house yonder.'

'All of them?'

'The leader, anyway.'

'How do you know you have the right man?'

'Woman. Pello knows, don't you, Pello?'

Pello was possessed of a ragged moustache and a look of sweaty desperation. 'It's Murcatto. The same one who led Orso's army at Sweet Pines. She was in Visserine, not but a month ago. Took her prisoner. Questioned her myself. That's where the Northman lost his eye.' The Northman called Shivers, that Sajaam had spoken of. 'In Salier's palace. She killed Ganmark there, that general of Orso's, few days afterward.'

'The Snake of Talins herself,' said Malt proudly, 'and still alive. What do you think of that?'

'I am all amaze.' Shenkt walked slowly to the window and peered out across the street. A shabby-looking place for a famous general, but such was life. 'She has men with her?'

'Just this Northman. Nothing we can't deal with. Lucky Nim and two of her boys are waiting in the alley at the back. When the big clock next chimes, we go in the front. They won't be getting away.'

Shenkt looked slowly round at each suspicious face, and gave each man a chance. 'You all are determined to do this? All of you?'

'Of fucking course we are. You'll find no faint hearts here, my friend.' Malt looked at him through narrowed eyes. 'You want to come in with us?'

'With you?' Shenkt took a long breath, then sighed. 'Great tempests wash up strange companions.'

'I'll take that as a yes.'

'We don't need this fucker.' The one Shenkt had told to pray, again, making a great show of a curved knife. A man of small patience, evidently. 'I say we cut his throat, and one less share to pay.'

Malt gently pushed his knife down. 'Come now, no need to be greedy. I've been on jobs like that before, everyone stuck on the money not the work, watching their backs every minute. Bad for your health and your business. We'll do this civilised, or not at all. What do you say?'

'I say civilised,' said Shenkt. 'For pity's sake, let's kill like honest men.'

'Exactly so. With what Orso's paying, there'll be enough for everyone. Equal shares all round, and we can all be rich.'

'Rich?' Shenkt smiled sadly as he shook his head. 'The dead are neither rich nor poor.' The look of mild surprise was just forming on Malt's face when Shenkt's pointing finger split it neatly in half.

Shivers sat on the greasy bed, back pressed to the dirty wall, with Monza sprawled on top of him. Her head lay in his lap, breath hissing shallow, in and out. The pipe was still in her bandaged left hand, smoke twisting from the embers in a brown streak. He frowned at it creeping through the shafts of light, rippling, spreading, filling the room with sweet haze.

Husk was good stuff for pain. Too good, to Shivers' mind. So good you always needed more. So good that after a while stubbing your toe seemed like excuse enough. Took your edge off, all that smoking, left you soft. Maybe Monza had more edge than she wanted, but he didn't trust it. The smoke was tickling at his nose, making him feel sick and needy both together. His eye was itching under the bandages. Would've been easy to do it. Where was the harm . . . ?

He had a sudden panic, wriggling out from under her like he was buried alive. Monza gave an irritated burble then fell back, eyelids flickering, hair stuck across her clammy face. Shivers ripped back the bolt on the window and pulled the wonky shutters open, getting a nice view of the rotting alley behind the building and a face full of cold, piss-smelling air. At least that smell was honest.

There were two men down there by a back door, and a woman holding one hand up. A bell rang out, from a high clock tower in the next street. The woman nodded, the men pulled out a bright sword and a heavy mace. She opened the door and they hurried in.

'Shit,' hissed Shivers, hardly able to believe it. Three of 'em and, from the way they'd been waiting, most likely more coming in the front. Too late to run. But then Shivers was sick of running anyway. He had his pride, still, didn't he? Running from the North and down here to fucking Styria was what landed him in this one-eyed mess in the first place.

He reached towards Monza, but stopped short. State she was in she'd be no use. So he let her be, slid out the heavy knife she'd given him the first day they met. The grip was firm in his hand and he squeezed it tight. They were better armed, maybe, but big weapons and small rooms don't mix. Surprise was on his side, and that's the best weapon a man can have. He pressed himself into the shadows behind the door, feeling his heart thumping, the breath burning in his throat. No fear, no doubt, just furious readiness.

He heard their soft steps on the stairs and had to stop himself laughing. A bit of a giggle crept out all the same, and he didn't know why, 'cause there was nothing funny. A creak and a muttered curse. Not the sharpest assassins in the whole Circle of the World. He bit on his lip, trying to stop his ribs shaking. Monza stirred, stretched out smiling on the greasy blanket.

'Benna . . .' she murmured. The door was yanked open and the swordsman sprang in. Monza's eyes came blearily open. 'Whathe-'

The second man barged in like a fool, knocking his mate off balance, lifting his mace over his head, tip scraping a little shower of plaster from the low ceiling. It was almost like he was offering it up. Would've seemed rude to turn it down, so Shivers snatched it from his hand while he stabbed the first one in the back.

The blade slid in and out of him. Quick, quiet scrapes, up to the hilt. Shivers growled through his teeth, half-sniggering with the leftover shreds of laughter, arm pumping in and out. The stabbed man made a shocked little hoot each time, not sure what was happening yet, twisted round, jerking the knife out of Shivers' hand.

The other one turned, eyes wide, too close to swing at. 'Wha-'

Shivers thumped him in the nose with the butt of the mace and felt it pop, sent him reeling towards the empty fireplace. The stabbed man's knees went, he caught his sword point on the wall above Monza and pitched on top of her. No need to worry about him. Shivers took a short stride, dropping onto his knees so the mace wouldn't hit the ceiling, roaring as he swung the big lump of metal. It hit its previous owner in the forehead with a meaty crunch, stove his skull in, spattered the ceiling with spots of blood.

He heard a scream behind, twisted round. The woman sprang through the door, a short blade in each hand. Monza's kicking leg tripped her as she struggled out from under the dying swordsman. Happy chance, the woman's scream switching from fury to shock as she blundered into Shivers' arms, fumbling one of her knives. He grabbed her other wrist as he went down under her, on top of the maceman's corpse, his head smacking against the side of the fireplace and leaving him blinded for a moment.

He kept his grip on her wrist, felt her nails tearing at his bandages. They growled stupidly at each other, her hair hanging down and tickling at him, tongue stuck between her teeth with the effort as she tried to push the blade into his neck with all her weight. Her breath smelled of lemons. He wrenched himself round and punched her under the jaw, snapped her head up, teeth sinking deep into her tongue.

Same moment the sword hacked clumsily into her arm, the point almost catching Shivers' shoulder, making him jerk back. Monza's white face behind her, eyes hardly focused. The woman howled, tried to drag herself free. Another fumbling sword blow caught the top of her head with the flat and knocked her sideways. Monza floundered into the wall, tripped over the bed, almost stabbing herself as the sword clattered from her hand. Shivers twisted the blade from the woman's limp grip and stabbed her under the jaw right to the hilt, blood spraying out across Monza's shirt and up the wall.

He kicked himself free of the tangle of limbs, scrabbling up the mace, pulling his knife from the dead swordsman's back and pushing it into his belt, stumbling for the door. The corridor outside was empty. He grabbed Monza's wrist and dragged her up. She was staring down at herself, soaked with the woman's blood.

'Wha . . . wha . . .'

He pulled her limp arm over his shoulder and hauled her through the door, bundled her down the stairs, her boots clattering against the treads. Out through the open back door into sunlight. She tottered a step and blew thin vomit down the wall. Groaned and heaved again. He pushed the haft of the mace up his sleeve, the bloody head in his fist, ready to let it drop if he needed to. He realised he was sniggering again as he did it. Couldn't see why. Still nothing funny. Quite the opposite, far as he could tell. Still laughing, though.

Monza took a drunken step or two, bent almost double. 'I got stop smoking,' she muttered, spitting bile.

' 'Course. Just as soon as my eye grows back.' He grabbed her elbow, pulled her after him towards the end of the alley, folk moving in the sunlit street. He paused at the corner, took a quick look both ways, then dragged her arm around his shoulder again, and away.

Aside from the three corpses, the room was empty. Shenkt padded to the window, stepping carefully around the slick of blood across the boards, and peered out. Of Murcatto and the one-eyed Northman there was no sign. But it was better they should escape than someone else should find them before he did. That he would not allow. When Shenkt took on a job, he always saw it through.

He squatted down, forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling. He had hardly made a worse mess of Malt and his seven friends than Murcatto and her Northman had of these three. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bed, all spattered and smeared with red. One man lay by the fireplace, his skull roundly pulped. The other was face down, the back of his shirt ripped with stab-wounds, soaked through with blood. The woman had a yawning gash in her neck.

Lucky Nim, he presumed. It seemed her luck had deserted her.

'Just Nim, then.'

Something gleamed in the corner, by the wall. He stooped and picked it up, held it to the light. A golden ring with a large, blood-red ruby. Far too fine a ring for any of these scum to wear. Murcatto's ring, even? Still warm from her finger? He slid it onto his own, then took hold of Nim's ankle and dragged her corpse up onto the bed, humming to himself as he stripped it bare.

Her right leg had a patch of scaly rash across the thigh, so he took the left instead, cut it free, buttock and all, with three practised movements of his butcher's sickle. He popped the bone from the hip joint with a sharp twist of his wrists, took the foot off with two jerks of the curved blade, wrapped her belt around the neatly butchered leg to hold it folded and slid it into his bag.

A rump steak, then, thick-cut and pan-fried. He always carried a special mix of Suljuk four-spice with him, crushed to his taste, and the oil native to the region around Puranti had a wonderful nutty flavour. Then salt, and crushed pepper. Good meat was all in the seasoning. Pink in the centre, but not bloody. Shenkt had never been able to understand people who liked their meat bloody, the notion disgusted him. Onions sizzling alongside. Perhaps then dice the shank and make stew, with roots and mushrooms, a broth from the bones, a dash of that old Muris vinegar to give it . . .

'Zing.'

He nodded to himself, carefully wiped the sickle clean, shouldered the bag, turned for the door and . . . stopped.

He had passed a baker's earlier, and thought what fine, crusty, new-baked loaves they had in the window. The smell of fresh bread. That glorious scent of honesty and simple goodness. He would very much have liked to be a baker, had he not been . . . what he was. Had he never been brought before his old master. Had he never followed the path laid out for him, and had he never rebelled against it. How well that bread would be, he now thought, sliced and thickly smeared with a coarse pate. Perhaps with a quince jelly, or some such, and a good glass of wine. He drew his knife again and went in through Lucky Nim's back for her liver.

After all, it was no use to her now.

Heroic Efforts, New Beginnings The rain stopped, and the sun came out over the farmland, a faint rainbow stretching down from the grey heavens. Monza wondered if there was an elf-glade where it touched the ground, the way her father used to tell her. Or if there was just shit, like everywhere else. She leaned from her saddle and spat into the wheat.

Elf shit, maybe.

She pushed her wet hood back and scowled to the west, watching the showers roll off towards Puranti. If there was any justice they'd dump a deluge on Faithful Carpi and the Thousand Swords, their outriders probably no more than a day's ride behind. But there was no justice, and Monza knew it. The clouds pissed where they pleased.

The damp winter wheat was spattered with patches of red flowers, like smears of blood across the tawny country. It would be ready to harvest soon, except there'd be no one here to do the reaping. Rogont was doing what he was best at pulling back, and the farmers were taking everything they could carry and pulling back with him towards Ospria. They knew the Thousand Swords were coming, and knew better than to be there when they did. There were no more infamous foragers in the world than the men Monza used to lead.

Forage, Farans wrote, is robbery so vast that it transcends mere crime, and enters the arena of politics.

She'd lost Benna's ring. She kept fussing at her middle finger with her thumb, endlessly disappointed to find it wasn't there. A pretty piece of rock hadn't changed the fact Benna was dead. But still it felt as if she'd lost some last little part of him she'd managed to cling on to. One of the last little parts of herself worth keeping.

She was lucky a ring was all she'd lost back in Puranti, though. She'd been careless, and it had nearly been the end of her. She had to stop smoking. Make a new beginning. Had to, and yet she was smoking more than ever. Each time she woke from sweet oblivion she told herself it would have to be the last, but a few hours later and she'd be sweating desperation from every pore. Waves of sick need, like an incoming tide, each one higher than the last. Each one resisted took a heroic effort, and Monza was no hero, however the people of Talins might once have cheered for her. She'd thrown her pipe away, then in a sticky panic bought another. She wasn't sure how many times she'd hidden the dwindling lump of husk down at the bottom of one bag or another. But she'd found there's a problem with hiding a thing yourself.

You always know where it is.

'I do not care for this country.' Morveer stood from his swaying seat and peered out across the flat land. 'This is good country for an ambush.'

'That's why we're here,' Monza growled back. Hedgerows, the odd stand of trees, brown houses and barns alone or in groups away across the fields plenty of hiding places. Scarcely a thing moved. Scarcely a sound but for the crows, the wind flapping the canvas on the cart, the wheels rattling, splattering through an occasional puddle.

'Are you sure it is prudent to put your faith in Rogont?'

'You don't win battles with prudence.'

'No, one plans murders with it. Rogont is notoriously untrustworthy even for a grand duke, and an old enemy of yours besides.'

'I can trust him as far as what's in his own interest.' The question was all the more irritating as it was one she'd been asking herself ever since they left Puranti. 'Small risk for him killing Faithful Carpi, but a hell of a pay-off if I can bring him the Thousand Swords.'

'But it would hardly be your first miscalculation. What if we are marooned out here in the path of an army? You are paying me to kill one man at a time, not fight a war single-'

'I paid you to kill one man in Westport, and you murdered fifty at a throw. I need no lessons from you in taking care.'

'Scarcely more than forty, and that was due to too much care to get your man, not too little! Was your butcher's bill any shorter at Cardotti's House of Leisure? Or in Duke Salier's palace? Or at Caprile, for that matter? Forgive me if I have scant faith in your ability to keep violence contained!'

'Enough!' she snarled at him. 'You're like a goat that won't stop bleating! Do the job I pay you for, and that's the end of it!'

Morveer pulled up the cart suddenly with a haul on the reins and Day squawked as she nearly fumbled her apple. 'Is this the thanks I get for your timely rescue in Visserine? After you so pointedly ignored my sage advice?'

Vitari, sprawling among the supplies on the back of the cart, stuck up one long arm. 'That rescue was as much my doing as his. No one's thanked me.'

Morveer ignored her. 'Perhaps I should find a more grateful employer!'

'Perhaps I should find a more obedient fucking poisoner!'

'Perhaps . . . ! But wait.' Morveer held up a finger, squeezing his eyes shut. 'But wait.' He puckered his lips and sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly blew it out. And again. Shivers rode up, raised his one eyebrow at Monza. One more breath, and Morveer's eyes came open, and he gave a chuckle of sickening falseness. 'Perhaps . . . I should most sincerely apologise.'

'What?'

'I realise I am . . . not always the easiest company.' A sharp burst of laughter from Vitari and Morveer winced, but carried on. 'If I seem always contrary it is because I want only the best for you and your venture. It has ever been a failing of mine to be too intransigent in my pursuit of excellence. There is no more important characteristic than pliability in a man who must, perforce, be your humble servant. Can I entreat you to make with me . . . a heroic effort? To put this unpleasantness behind us?' He snapped the reins and moved the cart on, still smiling thinly over his shoulder. 'I feel it! A new beginning!'

Monza caught Day's eye as she passed, rocking gently on her seat. The blonde girl lifted her brows, stripped her apple to the last fragment of stalk and flicked it away into the field. Vitari was on the back of the cart, just pulling off her coat and sprawling out on the canvas in the sunlight. 'Sun's coming out. New beginning.' She pointed across the country, one hand pressed to her chest. 'And aaaaaaaw, a rainbow! You know, they say there's an elf-glade where it touches the ground!'

Monza scowled after them. Seemed more likely they'd stumble on an elf-glade than that Morveer would make a new beginning. She trusted this sudden obedience even less than his endless carping.

'Maybe he just wants to be loved,' came Shivers' whispery voice as they set off again.

'If men can change like that.' And Monza snapped her fingers in his face.

'That's the only way they do change, ain't it?' His one eye stayed on her. 'If things change enough around 'em? Men are brittle, I reckon. They don't bend into new shapes. They get broken into them. Crushed into them.'

Burned into them, maybe. 'How's your face?' she muttered.

'Itchy.'

'Did it hurt, at the eye-maker's?'

'On a scale between stubbing your toe and having your eye burned out, it was down near the bottom.'

'Most everything is.'

'Falling down a mountain?'

'Not that bad, as long as you lie still. It's when you try to get up it starts to sting some.' That got a grin from him, though he was grinning a lot less than he used to. Small surprise after what he'd been through, maybe. What she'd put him through. 'I suppose . . . I should be thanking you for saving my life, again. It's getting to be a habit.'

'What you're paying me for, ain't it, Chief? Work well done is its own reward, my father always used to tell me. Fact is I'm good at it. As a fighter I'm a man you need to respect. As anything else I'm just a big shiftless fuck wasted a dozen years in the wars, with nothing to show for it but bloody dreams and one less eye than most. I've got my pride, still. Man's got to be what he is, I reckon. Otherwise what is he? Just pretending, no? And who wants to spend all the time they're given pretending to be what they ain't?'

Good question. Luckily they crested a rise, and she was spared having to think of an answer. The remains of the Imperial road stretched away, an arrow-straight stripe of brown through the fields. Eight centuries old, and still the best road in Styria. A sad comment on the leadership since. There was a farm not far from it. A stone house of two storeys, windows shuttered, roof of red tiles turned mossy brown with age, a small stable-block beside. A waist-high wall of lichen-splattered drystone round a muddy yard, a couple of scrawny birds pecking at the dirt. Opposite the house a wooden barn, roof slumping in the middle. A weather vane in the shape of a winged snake flapped limply on its leaning turret.