“Monza.” He tried to tug his filthy collar straight, but his hands were shaking too badly to manage it. “I must confess I heard you were dead. I was meaning to take revenge, of course—”

“On me or for me?”

He shrugged. “Difficult to remember… I stopped on the way for a drink.”

“Smells like it was more than one.” There was a hint of disappointment in her face that pricked at his insides almost worse than steel. “I heard you finally got yourself killed in Dagoska.”

He managed to lift one arm high enough to wave her words away. “There have always been false reports of my death. Wishful thinking, on the part of my many enemies. Where is your brother?”

“Dead.” Her face did not change.

“Well. I’m sorry for that. I always liked the boy.” The lying, gutless, scheming louse.

“He always liked you.” They had detested each other, but what did it matter now?

“If only his sister had felt as warmly about me, things might be so much different.”

“ ‘Might be’ takes us nowhere. We’ve all got… regrets.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, her standing, him on his knees. Not quite how he had pictured their reunion in his dreams. “Regrets. The cost of the business, Sazine used to tell me.”

“Perhaps we should put the past behind us.”

“I can hardly remember yesterday,” he lied. The past weighed on him like a giant’s suit of armour.

“The future, then. I’ve a job for you, if you’ll take it. Reckon you’re up to a job?”

“What manner of job?”

“Fighting.”

Cosca winced. “You always were far too attached to fighting. How often did I tell you? A mercenary has no business getting involved with that nonsense.”

“A sword is for rattling, not for drawing.”

“There’s my girl. I’ve missed you.” He said it without thinking, had to cough down his shame and nearly coughed up a lung.

“Help him up, Friendly.”

A big man had silently appeared while they were talking, not tall but heavyset, with an air of calm strength about him. He hooked Cosca under his elbow and pulled him effortlessly to his feet.

“That’s a strong arm and a good deed,” he gurgled over a rush of nausea. “Friendly is your name? Are you a philanthropist?”

“A convict.”

“I see no reason why a man cannot be both. My thanks in any case. Now if you could just point us in the direction of a tavern—”

“The taverns will have to wait for you,” said Vitari. “No doubt causing a slump in the wine industry. The conference begins in a week and we need you sober.”

“I don’t do sober anymore. Sober hurts. Did someone say conference?”

Monza was still watching him with those disappointed eyes. “I need a good man. A man with courage and experience. A man who won’t mind crossing Grand Duke Orso.” The corner of her mouth curled up. “You’re as close as we could find at short notice.”