Never fear your enemies, Verturio wrote, but your friends, always.

A Few Bad Men

The warehouse was a draughty cavern, cold light finding chinks in the shutters and leaving bright lines across the dusty boards, across the empty crates piled up in one corner, across the old table in the middle of the floor. Shivers dropped into a rickety chair next to it, felt the grip of the knife Monza had given him pressing at his calf. A sharp reminder of what he’d been hired for. Life was getting way more dark and dangerous than back home in the North. As far as being a better man went, he was going backwards, and quicker every day.

So why the hell was he still here? Because he wanted Monza? He had to admit it, and the fact she’d been cold with him since Westport only made him want her more. Because he wanted her money? That too. Money was a damn good thing for buying stuff. Because he needed the work? He did. Because he was good at the work? He was.

Because he enjoyed the work?

Shivers frowned. Some men aren’t stamped out for doing good, and he was starting to reckon he might be one of ’em. He was less and less sure with every day that being a better man was worth all the effort.

The sound of a door banging tugged him from his thoughts, and Cosca came down the creaking wooden steps from the rooms where they were sleeping, scratching slowly at the splatter of red rash up the side of his neck.

“Morning.”

The old mercenary yawned. “So it seems. I can barely remember the last one of these I saw. Nice shirt.”

Shivers twitched at his sleeve. Dark silk, with polished bone buttons and clever stitching round the cuff. A good stretch fancier than he’d have picked out, but Monza had liked it. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“I used to be one for fine clothes myself.” Cosca dropped into a rickety chair next to Shivers. “So did Monza’s brother, for that matter. He had a shirt just like that one, as I recall.”

Shivers weren’t sure what the old bastard was getting at, but he was sure he didn’t like it. “And?”

“Spoken much about her brother, has she?” Cosca had a strange little smile, like he knew something Shivers didn’t.

“She told me he’s dead.”

“So I hear.”

“She told me she’s not happy about it.”

“Most decidedly not.”

“Something else I should know?”

“I suppose we could all be wiser than we are. I’ll leave that up to her, though.”

“Where is she?” snapped Shivers, patience drying up.

“Monza?”

“Who else?”

“She doesn’t want anyone to see her face that doesn’t have to. But not to worry. I have hired fighting men all across the Circle of the World. And my fair share of entertainers too, as it goes. Do you have any issue with my taking charge of the proceedings?”

Shivers had a pile of issues with it. It was plain the only thing Cosca had taken charge of for a good long while was a bottle. After the Bloody-Nine killed his brother, and cut his head off, and had it nailed up on a standard, Shivers’ father had taken to drinking. He’d taken to drinking, and rages, and having the shakes. He’d stopped making good choices, and he’d lost the respect of his people, and he’d wasted all he’d built, and died leaving Shivers nought but sour memories.