'But try paying a whore with that.' Victus was grinning, and that weasel never grinned. Something was wrong about their smiles, something mocking in them.

'Look.' Andiche rested one lazy hand on the arm of the captain general's chair and dusted the seat off with the other. 'We don't doubt for a moment that when it comes to a fight, you're the best damn general a man could ask for.'

'Then what's the problem?'

Victus' face twisted into a snarl. 'We don't want to fight! We want to make . . . fucking . . . money!'

'Who ever brought you more money than me?'

'Ahem,' came a voice right in her ear. Monza jerked round, and froze, hand halfway to the hilt of her sword. Standing just behind her, with a faintly embarrassed smile, was Nicomo Cosca.

He'd shaved off his moustache, and all his hair besides, left only a black and grey stubble over his knobbly skull, his sharp jaw. The rash had faded to a faint pink splash up the side of his neck. His eyes were less sunken, his face no longer trembling or beaded with sweat. But the smile was the same. The faint little smile and the playful gleam in his dark eyes. The same he used to have, when she first met him.

'A delight to see you both well.'

'Uh,' grunted Shivers. Monza found she'd made a kind of strangled cough, but no words came with it.

'I am in resplendent health, your concern for my welfare is most touching.' Cosca strolled past, slapping a puzzled-looking Shivers on the back, more captains of the Thousand Swords pushing their way through the flap after him and spreading out around the edges of the tent. Men whose names, faces, qualities, or lack of them, she knew well. A thick-set man with a stoop, a worn coat and almost no neck came at the rear. He raised his heavy brows at her as he passed.

'Friendly?' she hissed. 'I thought you were going back to Talins!'

He shrugged, as if it was nothing. 'Didn't make it all the way.'

'So I fucking see!'

Cosca stepped up onto the packing cases and turned to the assembly with a self-satisfied flourish. He'd acquired a grand black breastplate with golden scrollwork from somewhere, a sword with a gilded hilt, fine black boots with shining buckles. He settled himself into the captain general's chair with as much pomp as an Emperor into his throne, Friendly standing watchful beside the cases, arms crossed. As Cosca's arse touched the wood the tent broke into polite applause, every captain tapping their fingers against their palms as daintily as fine ladies attending the theatre. Just as they had for Monza, when she stole the chair. If she hadn't felt suddenly so sick she might almost have laughed.

Cosca waved away the applause while obviously encouraging it. 'No, no, really, entirely undeserved. But it's good to be back.'

'How the hell-'

'Did I survive? The wound, it appears, was not quite so fatal as we all supposed. The Talinese took me, on account of my uniform, for one of their own, and bore me directly to an excellent surgeon, who was able to staunch the bleeding. I was two weeks abed, then slipped out of a window. I made contact in Puranti with my old friend Andiche, who I had gathered might be desirous of a change in command. He was, and so were all his noble fellows.' He gestured to the captains scattered about the tent, then to himself. 'And here I am.'

Monza snapped her mouth shut. There was no planning for this. Nicomo Cosca, the very definition of an unpredictable development. Still, a plan too brittle to bend with circumstances is worse than no plan at all. 'My congratulations, then, General Cosca,' she managed to grate. 'But my offer still stands. Gurkish gold in return for your services to Duke Rogont-'

'Ah.' Cosca winced, sucking air through his teeth. 'Tiny little problem there, unfortunately. I already signed a new engagement with Grand Duke Orso. Or with his heir, to be precise, Prince Foscar. A promising young man. We'll be moving against Ospria just as Faithful Carpi planned, prior to his untimely demise.' He poked at the air with his forefinger. 'Putting paid to the League of Eight! Taking the fight to the Duke of Delay! There's plenty to sack in Ospria. It was a good plan.' Agreeing mutters from the captains. 'Why work out another?'

'But you hate Orso!'

'Oh, I despise him utterly, that's well known, but I've nothing against his money. It's the exact same colour as everybody else's. You should know. He paid you enough of it.'

'You old cunt,' she said.

'You really shouldn't talk to me that way.' Cosca stuck his lips out at her. 'I am a mature forty-eight. Besides, I gave my life for you!'

'You didn't fucking die!' she snarled.

'Well. Rumours of my death are often exaggerated. Wishful thinking, on the part of my many enemies.'

'I'm beginning to know how they feel.'

'Oh, come, come, whatever were you thinking? A noble death? Me? Very much not my style. I mean to go with my boots off, a bottle in my hand and a woman on my cock.' His eyebrows went up. 'It's not that job you've come for, is it?'

Monza ground her teeth. 'If it's a question of money-'

'Orso has the full support of the Banking House of Valint and Balk, and you'll find no deeper pockets anywhere. He's paying well, and better than well. But it's not about the money, actually. I signed a contract. I gave my solemn word.'

She stared at him. 'When have you ever cared a shit about your word?'

'I'm a changed man.' Cosca pulled a flask from a back pocket, unscrewed it and took a long swig, never taking his amused eyes from her face. 'And I must admit I owe it all to you. I've put the past behind me. Found my principles.' He grinned at his captains, and they grinned back. 'Bit mossy, but they should polish up alright. You forged a good relationship with Orso. Loyalty. Honesty. Stability. Hate to toss all your hard work down the latrine. Besides, there's the soldier's first rule to consider, isn't there, boys?'

Victus and Andiche spoke in unison, just the way they'd used to, before she took the chair. 'Never fight for the losing side!'

Cosca's grin grew wider. 'Orso holds the cards. Find a good hand of your own, my ears are always open. But we'll stick with Orso for now.'

'Whatever you say, General,' said Andiche.

'Whatever you say,' echoed Victus. 'Good to have you back.'

Sesaria leaned down, muttering something in Cosca's ear. The new captain general recoiled as though stung. 'Give them over to Duke Orso? Absolutely not! Today is a happy day! A joyous occasion for one and all! There'll be no killing here, not today.' He wafted a hand at her as though he was shooing a cat out of the kitchen. 'You can go. Better not come back tomorrow, though. We might not be so joyous, then.'

Monza took a step towards him, a curse half-out of her mouth. There was a rattling of metal as the assorted captains began to draw their weapons. Friendly blocked her path, arms coming uncrossed, hands dropping to his sides, expressionless face turned towards her. She stopped still. 'I need to kill Orso!'

'And if you manage it, your brother will live again, yes?' Cosca cocked his head to one side. 'You'll get your hand back? No?'

She was cold all over, skin prickling. 'He deserves what's coming!'

'Ah, but most of us do. All of us will get it regardless. How many others will you suck into your little vortex of slaughter in the meantime?'

'For Benna-'

'No. For you. I know you, don't forget. I've stood where you stand now, beaten, betrayed, disgraced, and come out the other side. As long as you have men to kill you are still Monzcarro Murcatto, the great and fearsome! Without that, what are you?' Cosca's lip curled. 'A lonely cripple with a bloody past.'

The words were strangled in her throat. 'Please, Cosca, you have to-'

'I don't have to do a thing. We're even, remember? More than even, say I. Out of my sight, snake, before I pack you off back to Duke Orso in a jar. You need a job, Northman?'

Shivers' good eye crept across to Monza, and for a moment she was sure he'd say yes. Then he slowly shook his head. 'I'll stick with the chief I've got.'

'Loyalty, eh?' Cosca snorted. 'Be careful with that nonsense, it can get you killed!' A scattering of laughter. 'The Thousand Swords is no place for loyalty, eh, boys? We'll have none of that childishness here!' More laughter, a score or more hard grins all aimed at Monza.

She felt dizzy. The tent seemed too bright and too dark at once. Her nose caught a waft of something sweaty bodies, or strong drink, or stinking cooking, or a latrine pit too close to the headquarters, and her stomach turned over, set her mouth to watering. A smoke, oh please, a smoke. She turned on her heel, somewhat unsteadily, shoved her way between a couple of chuckling men and through the flap, out of the tent and into the bright morning.

Outside it was far worse. Sunlight stabbed at her. Faces, dozens of them, blurred together into a mass of eyes, all fixed on her. A jury of scum. She tried to look ahead, always ahead, but she couldn't stop her lids from flickering. She tried to walk in the old way, head back, but her knees were trembling so hard she was sure they must be able to hear them slapping against the insides of her trousers. It was as if she'd been putting off the fear, the weakness, the pain. Putting it off, storing it up, and now it was breaking on her in one great wave, sweeping her under, helpless. Her skin was icy with cold sweat. Her hand was aching all the way to her neck. They saw what she really was. Saw she'd lost. A lonely cripple with a bloody past, just like Cosca said. Her guts shifted and she gagged, an acid tickle at the back of her throat. The world lurched.

Hate only keeps you standing so long.

'Can't,' she whispered. 'Can't.' She didn't care what happened, as long as she could stop. Her leg buckled and she started to fall, felt Shivers grab hold of her arm and drag her up.

'Walk,' he hissed in her ear.

'Can't-'

His fist dug hard into her armpit, and the pain stopped the world spinning for a moment. 'Fucking walk, or we're finished.'

Enough strength, with Shivers' help, to make it to the horses. Enough to put a boot in a stirrup. Enough, with an aching groan, to get herself into the saddle, pull her horse around and get it facing the right way. As they rode from the camp she could hardly see. The great captain general, Duke Orso's would-be nemesis, sagging in her saddle like dead meat.

You make yourself too hard, you make yourself brittle too. Crack once, crack all to pieces.

VI.

OSPRIA.

'I like a look of agony, because I know it's true'

Emily Dickinson It seemed a little gold could spare a lot of blood.

Musselia could not be captured without an indefinite siege, this was well known. It had once been a great fortress of the New Empire, and its inhabitants placed great pride in their ancient walls. Too much pride in walls, perhaps, and not enough gold in the pockets of their defenders. It was for a sum almost disappointing that Benna arranged for a small side gate to be left unlocked.

Even before Faithful and his men had taken possession of the defences, and long before the rest of the Thousand Swords spilled out into the city to begin the sack, Benna was leading Monza through the darkened streets. Him leading her was unusual enough in itself.

'Why did you want to be at the front?'

'You'll see.'

'Where are we going?'

'To get our money back. Plus interest.'

Monza frowned as she hurried after him. Her brother's surprises tended always to have a sting in them. Through a narrow archway in a narrow street. A cobbled courtyard inside, lit by two flickering torches. A Kantic man in simple travelling clothes stood beside a canvas-covered cart, horse hitched and ready. Monza did not know him, but he knew Benna, coming forwards, hands out, his smile gleaming in the darkness.

'Benna, Benna. It is good to see you!' They embraced like old comrades.

'And you, my friend. This is my sister, Monzcarro.'

The man bowed to her. 'The famous and fearsome. An honour.'

'Somenu Hermon,' said Benna, smiling wide. 'Greatest merchant of Musselia.'

'No more than a humble trader, like any other. There are only a few last . . . things . . . to move. My wife and children have already left.'

'Good. That makes this much easier.'

Monza frowned at her brother. 'What's going-'

Benna snatched her dagger from her belt and stabbed Hermon overhand in his face. It happened so fast that the merchant was still smiling as he fell. Monza drew her sword on an instinct, staring into the shadows around the courtyard, out into the street, but all was quiet.

'What the hell have you done?' she snarled at him. He was up on the cart, ripping back the canvas, a mad, eager look on his face. He fumbled open the lid of a box underneath, delved inside and let coins slowly drop with the jingling rattle of falling money.

Gold.

She hopped up beside him. More gold than she had ever seen at once. With a sickly widening of her eyes she realised there were more boxes. She pushed the canvas back with trembling hands. Many more.

'We're rich!' squeaked Benna. 'We're rich!'

'We were already rich.' She was looking down at her knife stuck through Hermon's eye, blood black in the lamplight. 'Did you have to kill him?'

He stared at her as if she had gone mad. 'Rob him and leave him alive? He would have told people we had the money. This way we're safe.'

'Safe? This much gold is the opposite of safe, Benna!'

He frowned, as though he was hurt by her. 'I thought you'd be pleased. You of all people, who slaved in the dirt for nothing.' As though he was disappointed in her. 'This is for us. For us, do you understand?' As though he was disgusted with her. 'Mercy and cowardice are the same, Monza! I thought you knew that.'

What could she do? Unstab Hermon's face?

It seemed a little gold could cost a lot of blood.

His Plan of Attack The southernmost range of the Urval Mountains, the spine of Styria, all shadowy swales and dramatic peaks bathed in golden evening light, marched boldly southwards, ending at the great rock into which Ospria itself was carved. Between the city and the hill on which the headquarters of the Thousand Swords had been pitched, the deep and verdant valley was patched with wild flowers in a hundred colours. The Sulva wound through its bottom and away towards the distant sea, touched by the setting sun and turned the orange of molten iron.

Birds twittered in the olive trees of an ancient grove, grasshoppers chirped in the waving long grass, the wind kissed at Cosca's face and made the feather on his hat, held gently in one hand, heroically thrash and flutter. Vineyards were planted on the slopes to the north of the city, green rows of vines on the dusty hillsides that drew Cosca's eye and made his mouth water with an almost painful longing. The best vintages in the Circle of the World were trampled out on that very ground . . .

'Sweet mercy, a drink,' he mouthed.

'Beautiful,' breathed Prince Foscar.

'You never before looked upon fair Ospria, your Highness?'

'I had heard stories, but . . .'

'Breathtaking, isn't she?' The city was built upon four huge shelves cut into the cream-coloured rock of the steep hillside, each one surrounded by its own smooth wall, crammed with lofty buildings, stuffed with a tangle of roofs, domes, turrets. The ancient Imperial aqueduct curved gracefully down from the mountains to meet its outermost rampart, fifty arches or more, the tallest of them twenty times the height of a man. The citadel clung impossibly to the highest crag, four great towers picked out against the darkening azure sky. The lamps were being lit in the windows as the sun sank, the outline of the city dusted with pinprick points of light. 'There can be no other place quite like this one.'

A pause. 'It seems almost a shame to spoil it with fire and sword,' observed Foscar.

'Almost, your Highness. But this is war, and those are the tools available.'

Cosca had heard that Count Foscar, now Prince Foscar following his brother's mishap in a famous Sipanese brothel, was a boyish, callow, weaknerved youth, and was therefore pleasantly impressed by what he had seen thus far. The lad was fresh-faced, true, but every man begins young, and he seemed thoughtful rather than weak, sober rather than bloodless, polite rather than limp. A young man very much like Cosca himself had been at that age. Only the absolute reverse in every particular, of course.

'They appear to be most powerful fortifications . . .' murmured the prince, scanning the towering walls of the city with his eyeglass.

'Oh, indeed. Ospria was the furthest outpost of the New Empire, built as a bastion to hold back the restless Baolish hordes. Parts of the walls have been standing firm against the savage for more than five hundred years.'

'Then will Duke Rogont not simply retreat behind them? He does seem prone to avoid battle whenever possible . . .'

'He'll give battle, your Highness,' said Andiche.

'He must,' rumbled Sesaria, 'or we'll just camp in his pretty valley and starve him out.'

'We outnumber him three to one or more,' whined Victus.