Best Served Cold

Victus snorted. “Why would I want the fucking thing? Hasn’t done much good for the arses on it up to now, has it? Sazine, you, the Murcattos, Faithful Carpi, and you again. Each one ended up dead or close to it, and all the while I’ve stood behind, and got a lot richer than a nasty little bastard like me deserves.” He winced, put one hand on his stomach. “No, I’ll find some new idiot to sit there, I think, and make me richer’n ever.” He grimaced again. “Ah, shit on that stuff. Ah!” He staggered up from his chair, clutching the edge of the table, a thick vein bulging from his forehead. “What’ve you done to me, you old bastard?” He squinted over, flatbow suddenly wobbling.

Cosca flung himself forwards. The trigger clicked, the bowstring twanged, the bolt clattered against the plaster just to his left. He rolled up beside the table with a whoop of triumph, raising his knife. “Hah hah -”

Victus’ bow bashed him in the face, just above his eye. “Gurgh!” Cosca’s vision was suddenly filled with light, his knees wobbling wildly. He clutched at the table, waved his knife at nothing. “Sfup.” Hands closed around his throat. Hands crusted with heavy rings. Victus’ pink face loomed up before his, spit spluttering from his twisted mouth.

Cosca’s boots went out from under him, the room flipped over, his head crashed into the table. And all was dark.

– 

T he battle under the dome was over, and between the two sides they’d made quite a mess of Orso’s cherished rotunda. The glittering mosaic floor and the sweeping steps above it were strewn with corpses, scattered with fallen weapons, dashed and spattered, pooled and puddled with dark blood.

The mercenaries had won-if a dozen of them left standing counted as a victory. “Help me!” one of the wounded was screeching. “Help me!” But his fellows had other things on their minds.

“Get these fucking things open!” The one taking charge was Secco, the corporal who’d been on guard when she rode into the Thousand Swords’ camp only to find Cosca there ahead of her. He dragged a dead Talinese soldier out of the way of the lion-head doors and dumped the corpse down the stairs. “You! Find an axe!”

Monza frowned. “Orso’ll have more men in there for sure. We’d better wait for help.”

“Wait? And split the takings?” Secco gave her a withering sneer. “Fuck yourself, Murcatto, you don’t give us orders no more! Get it open!” Two men started battering away with axes, splinters of veneer flying. The rest of the survivors jostled dangerously close behind them, breathless with greed. It seemed the doors had been made to impress guests, not keep out armies. They shuddered, loosening on their hinges. A few more blows and one axe broke clean through, a great chunk of wood splintering away. Secco whooped in triumph as he rammed his spear into the gap, levering the bar on the other side out of its brackets. He fumbled with the ragged edge, pulling the doors wide.

Squealing like children on a feast day, tangled up with each other, drunk on blood and avarice, the mercenaries spilled through into the bright hall where Benna died. Monza knew it was a bad idea to follow. She knew Orso might not even be in there, and if he was, he’d be ready.

But sometimes you have to grasp the nettle.

She dashed round the doorframe after them, keeping low. An instant later she heard the rattling of flatbows. The mercenary in front of her fell and she had to duck around him. Another tumbled backwards, clutching at a bolt in his chest. Boots hammered, men bellowed, the grand room with its great windows and its paintings of history’s winners wobbled around her as she ran. She saw figures in full armour, glimpses of steel shining. Orso’s closest guards.

She saw Secco jabbing away at one with his spear, the blade scraping uselessly off heavy plate. She heard a loud bonk as a mercenary smashed in a helmet with a big mace, then a scream as he was cut down himself, chopped near in half across the back with a two-handed sword, blood jumping. Another bolt snatched a man from his feet as he charged in and sent him sprawling backwards. Monza crouched, setting her shoulder under the edge of a marble table and heaved it over, a vase that had been on top shattering across the floor. She ducked down behind it, flinched as a flatbow bolt glanced off the stone and clattered away.

“No!” she heard someone shout. “No!” A mercenary flashed past her, running for the door he’d burst through with such enthusiasm a moment before. There was the sound of a bowstring and he stumbled, a bolt sticking from his back, tottered another step and fell, slid along on his face. He tried to push himself up, coughed blood, then sagged down. He died looking right at her.

This was what you got for being greedy. And here she was, wedged in behind a table and all out of friends, more than likely next.

“Grasp the fucking nettle,” she cursed at herself.

–