“Fucked,” said Cosca. “We’re all adults here, let’s call it what it is.” His bloodshot eyes flickered up to the two bottles of wine on the shelf, then back. Friendly had noticed they did that a lot.

Vitari’s finger drifted up towards the model’s roof. “Then, on the top floor, three large suites for the… fucking of the most valued guests. They say the Royal Suite in the centre is fit for an emperor.”

“Then Ario might just consider it fit for himself,” growled Murcatto.

The group had grown from five to seven, so Friendly cut each of the two loaves into fourteen slices, the blade hissing through the crust and sending up puffs of flour dust. There would be twenty-eight slices in all, four slices each. Murcatto would eat less, but Day would make up for it. Friendly hated to leave a slice of bread uneaten.

“According to Eider, Ario and Foscar will have three or four dozen guests, some of them armed but not keen to fight, as well as six bodyguards.”

“She telling the truth?” Shivers’ heavy accent.

“Chance may play a part, but she won’t lie to us.”

“Keeping charge o’ that many… we’ll need more fighters.”

“Killers,” interrupted Cosca. “Again, let’s call them what they are.”

“Twenty, maybe,” came Murcatto’s hard voice, “as well as you three.”

Twenty-three. An interesting number. Heat kissed the side of Friendly’s face as he unhooked the door of the old stove and pulled it creaking open. Twenty-three could be divided by no other number, except one. No parts, no fractions. No half-measures. Not unlike Murcatto herself. He hauled the big pot out with a cloth around his hands. Numbers told no lies. Unlike people.

“How do we get twenty men inside without being noticed?”

“It’s a revel,” said Vitari. “There’ll be entertainers. And we’ll provide them.”

“Entertainers?”

“This is Sipani. Every other person in the city is an entertainer or a killer. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find a few who are both.”

Friendly was left out of the planning, but he did not mind. Sajaam had asked him to do what Murcatto said, and that was the end of it. He had learned long ago that life became much easier if you ignored what was not right before you. For now the stew was his only concern.

He dipped in his wooden spoon and took a taste, and it was good. He rated it forty-one out of fifty. The smell of cooking, the sight of the steam rising, the sound of the fizzing logs in the stove, it all put him in comforting mind of the kitchens in Safety. Of the stews, and soups, and porridge they used to make in the great vats. Long ago, back when there was an infinite weight of comforting stone always above his head, and the numbers added, and things made sense.

“Ario will want to drink for a while,” Murcatto was saying, “and gamble, and show off to his idiots. Then he’ll be brought up to the Royal Suite.”