“Goat’s milk?”

“What?”

“I hear it’s good for the digestion.”

“They always said you had a flint for a heart, but I never thought even you would be so cold as to suggest I drink milk, damn you! Just one more shot of that old grape spirit.” A drink, a drink, a drink. “Just one more and I’m done.”

“Oh, you’re done alright. How long you been drunk this time?”

“I’ve a notion it was summer when I started. What is it now?”

“Not the same year, that’s sure. How much money have you wasted?”

“All there is and more. I’d be surprised if there’s a coin in the world that hasn’t been through my purse at some point. But I seem to be out of funds right now, so if you could just spare some change—”

“You need to make a change, not spend some.”

He drew himself up, as far as his knees at least, and jabbed at his chest with a crabbing finger. “Do you suppose the shrivelled, piss-soaked, horrified better part of me, the part that screams to be released from this torture, doesn’t know that?” He gave a helpless shrug, aching body collapsing on itself. “But for a man to change he needs the help of good friends, or, better yet, good enemies. My friends are all long dead, and my enemies, I am forced to admit… have better things to do.”

“Not all of us.” Another woman’s voice, but one that sent a creeping shiver of familiarity down Cosca’s back. A figure formed out of the gloom, mist sucked into smoky swirls after her flicking coat-tails.

“No…” he croaked.

He remembered the moment he first laid eyes on her: a wild-haired girl of nineteen with a sword at her hip and a bright stare rich with anger, defiance and the slightest fascinating hint of contempt. There was a hollowness to her face now, a twist of pain about her mouth. The sword hung on the other side, gloved right hand resting slack on the pommel. Her eyes still had that unwavering sharpness, but there was more anger, more defiance and a long stretch more contempt. Who could blame her for that? Cosca was beyond contemptible, and knew it.

He had sworn a thousand times to kill her, of course, if he ever saw her again. Her, or her brother, or Andiche, Victus, Sesaria, Faithful Carpi or any of the other treacherous bastards from the Thousand Swords who had once betrayed him. Stolen his place from him. Sent him fleeing from the battlefield at Afieri with his reputation and his clothes both equally tattered.

He had sworn a thousand times to kill her, but Cosca had broken all manner of oaths in his life, and the sight of her brought no rage. Instead what welled up in him was a mixture of worn-out self-pity, sappy joy and, most of all, piercing shame at seeing in her face how far he had fallen. He felt the ache in his nose, behind his cheeks, tears welling in his stinging eyes. For once he was grateful that they were red as wounds at the best of times. If he wept, no one could tell the difference.