Nicomo Cosca was infinitely worse. A notoriously destructive, treacherous and capricious mercenary with no code or scruple but his own profit. A drunkard, dissipater and womaniser with all the self-control of a rabid dog. A self-aggrandising backslider with an epically inflated opinion of his own abilities, he was everything Morveer was not. But now, as well as taking this dangerously unpredictable element into their confidence and involving him intimately in their plans, the group seemed to be paying court to the trembling shell. Even Day, his own assistant, was chortling at his jokes whenever she did not have her mouth full, which, admittedly, was but rarely.

“… a group of miscreants hunched around a table in an abandoned warehouse?” Cosca was musing, bloodshot eyes rolling round the table. “Talking of masks, and disguises, and weaponry? I cannot imagine how a man of my high calibre ended up in such company. One would think there was some underhand business taking place!”

“My own thoughts exactly!” Morveer shrilly interjected. “I could never countenance such a stain upon my conscience. That is why I applied an extract of Widow’s Blossom to your bowls. I hope you all enjoy your last few agonising moments!”

Six faces frowned back at him, entirely silent.

“A jest, of course,” he croaked, realising instantly that his conversational foray had suffered a spectacular misfire. Shivers exhaled long and slow. Murcatto curled her tongue sourly around one canine tooth. Day was frowning down at her bowl.

“I’ve taken more amusing punches in the face,” said Vitari.

“Poisoners’ humour.” Cosca glowered across the table, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the rattling of his fork against his bowl as his right hand vibrated. “A lover of mine was murdered by poison. I have had nothing but disgust for your profession ever since. And all its members, naturally.”

“You can hardly expect me to take responsibility for the actions of every person in my line of work.” Morveer thought it best not to mention that he had, in fact, been personally responsible, having been hired by Grand Duchess Sefeline of Ospria to murder Nicomo Cosca some fourteen years before. It was becoming a matter of considerable annoyance that he had missed the mark and killed his mistress instead.

“I crush wasps whenever I find them, whether they have stung me or not. To my mind you people—if I can call you people—are all equally worthy of contempt. A poisoner is the filthiest kind of coward.”

“Second only to a drunkard!” returned Morveer with a suitable curling of his upper lip. “Such human refuse might almost evoke pity were they not so utterly repellent. No animal is more predictable. Like a befouled homing pigeon, the drunk returns ever to the bottle, unable to change. It is their one route of escape from the misery they leave in their wake. For them the sober world is so crowded with old failures and new fears that they suffocate in it. There is a true coward.” He raised his glass and took a long, self-satisfied gulp of wine. He was unused to drinking rapidly and felt, in fact, a powerful urge to vomit, but forced a queasy smile onto his face nonetheless.