“The butcher said it was lamb, and I’ve no reason to doubt him.” Friendly picked up his fork. “No one sells human meat that cheap.”

There was one of those uncomfortable silences that Friendly always seemed to produce when he said more than three words at once. Then Cosca gave a gurgling laugh. “Depends on the circumstances. Reminds me of when we found those children, do you remember, Monza, after the siege at Muris?” Her scowl grew even harder than usual, but there was no stopping him. “We found those children, and we wanted to sell them on to some slavers, but you thought we could—”

“Of course!” Morveer almost shrieked. “Hilarious! What could possibly be more amusing than orphan children sold into slavery?”

There was another awkward silence while the poisoner and the mercenary gave each other a deadly glare. Friendly had seen men exchange that very look in Safety. When new blood came in, and prisoners were forced into a cell together. Sometimes two men would just catch each other wrong. Hate each other from the moment they met. Too different. Or too much the same. Things were harder to predict out here, of course. But in Safety, when you saw two men look at each other that way you knew, sooner or later, there would be blood.

A drink, a drink, a drink. Cosca’s eyes lurched from that preening louse Morveer and down to the poisoner’s full wine glass, around the glasses of the others, reluctantly back to his own sickening mug of water and finally to the wine bottle on the table, where his gaze was gripped as if by burning pincers. A quick lunge and he could have it. How much could he swallow before they wrestled it from his hands? Few men could drink faster when circumstances demanded—

Then he noticed Friendly watching him, and there was something in the convict’s sad, flat eyes that made him think again. He was Nicomo Cosca, damn it! Or he had been once, at least. Cities had trembled, and so on. He had spent too many years never thinking beyond his next drink. It was time to look further. To the drink after next, at any rate. But change was not easy.

He could almost feel the sweat springing out of his skin. His head was pulsing, booming with pain. He clawed at his itchy neck but that only made it itch the more. He was smiling like a skull, he knew, and talking far too much. But it was smile, and talk, or scream his exploding head off.

“… saved my life at the siege of Muris, eh, Monza? At Muris, was it?” He hardly even knew how his cracking voice had wandered onto the subject. “Bastard came at me out of nowhere. A quick thrust!” He nearly knocked his water cup over with a wayward jab of his finger. “And she ran him through! Right through the heart, I swear. Saved my life. At Muris. Saved my… life…”