“I don’t trust a man who drinks,” he growled, not bothered about dressing it up. “A man takes to drinking, then he gets weak, then his mind goes.”

Cosca sadly shook his head. “You have it back to front. A man’s mind goes, then he gets weak, then he takes to drink. The bottle is the symptom, not the cause. But though I am touched to my core by your concern, you need not worry on my account. I feel a great deal steadier today!” He spread his hands out above the tabletop. It was true they weren’t shaking as bad as they had been. A gentle quiver rather than a mad jerk. “I’ll be back to my best before you know it.”

“I can hardly wait to see that.” Vitari strutted out from the kitchen, arms folded.

“None of us can, Shylo!” And Cosca slapped Shivers on the arm. “But enough about me! What criminals, footpads, thugs and other such human filth have you dug from the slimy backstreets of old Sipani? What fighting entertainers have you for our consideration? Musicians who murder? Deadly dancers? Singers with swords? Jugglers who… who…”

“Kill?” offered Shivers.

Cosca’s grin widened. “Brusque and to the point, as always.”

“Brusque?”

“Thick.” Vitari slid into the last chair and unfolded a sheet of paper on the scarred tabletop. “First up, there’s a band I found playing for bits near the docks. I reckon they make a fair stretch more from robbing passers-by than serenading them, though.”

“Rough-and-tumble fellows, eh? The very type we need.” Cosca stretched out his scrawny neck like a cock about to crow. “Enter!”

The door squealed open and five men wandered in. Even where Shivers came from they would’ve been reckoned a rough-looking set. Greasy-haired. Pock-faced. Rag-dressed. Their eyes darted about, narrow and suspicious, dirty hands clutching a set of stained instruments. They shuffled up in front of the table, one of them scratching his groin, another prodding at a nostril with his drumstick.

“And you are?” asked Cosca.

“We’re a band,” the nearest said.

“And has your band a name?”

They looked at each other. “No. Why would it?”

“Your own names, then, if you please, and your specialities both as entertainer and fighter.”

“My name’s Solter. I play the drum, and the mace.” Flicking his greasy coat back to show the dull glint of iron. “I’m better with the mace, if I’m honest.”

“I’m Morc,” said the next in line. “Pipe, and cutlass.”

“Olopin. Horn, and hammer.”

“Olopin, as well.” Jerking a thumb sideways. “Brother to this article. Fiddle, and blades.” Whipping a pair of long knives from his sleeves and spinning ’em round his fingers.

The last had the most broken nose Shivers had ever seen, and he’d seen some bad ones. “Gurpi. Lute, and lute.”

“You fight with your lute?” asked Cosca.

“I hits ’em with it just so.” The man showed off a sideways swipe, then flashed two rows of shit-coloured teeth. “There’s a great-axe hidden in the body.”