“Who’s the fat man?” asked Shivers.

“Salier, Grand Duke of Visserine.”

Vitari sniggered. “For another month or two, maybe. He squandered his city’s soldiers in the summer.” Monza had charged them down on the High Bank, with Faithful Carpi beside her. “His city’s food in the autumn.” Monza had merrily burned the fields about the walls and driven off the farmers. “And he’s fast running out of allies.” Monza had left Duke Cantain’s head rotting on the walls of Borletta. “You can almost see him sweating from here, the old bastard.”

“Shame,” said Cosca. “I always liked the man. You should see the galleries in his palace. The greatest collection of art in the world, or so he says. Quite the connoisseur. Kept the best table in Styria too, in his day.”

“It shows,” said Monza.

“One does wonder how they get him in his saddle.”

“Block and tackle,” snapped Vitari.

Monza snorted. “Or dig a trench and ride the horse up underneath him.”

“What about the other one?” asked Shivers.

“Rogont, Grand Duke of Ospria.”

“He looks the part.” True enough. Tall and broad-shouldered with a handsome face and a mass of dark curls.

“Looks it.” Monza spat again. “But not much more.”

“The nephew of my one-time employer, now thankfully deceased, the Duchess Sefeline.” Cosca had made his neck bleed with his scratching. “They call him the Prince of Prudence. The Count of Caution. The Duke of Delay. A fine general, by all accounts, but doesn’t like to gamble.”

“I’d be less charitable,” said Monza.

“Few people are less charitable than you.”

“He doesn’t like to fight.”

“No good general likes to fight.”

“But every good general has to, from time to time. Rogont’s been pitted against Orso throughout the Years of Blood and never fought more than a skirmish. The man’s the best withdrawer in Styria.”

“Toughest thing to manage, a retreat. Maybe he just hasn’t found his moment yet.”

Shivers gave a faraway sigh. “We’re all of us waiting for our moment.”

“He’s wasted all his chances now,” said Monza. “Once Visserine falls, the way to Puranti is open, and beyond that nothing but Ospria itself, and Orso’s crown. No more delays. The sand’s run through on caution.”

Rogont and Salier passed underneath them. The two men who, along with honest, honourable, dead Duke Cantain, had formed the League of Eight to defend Styria against Orso’s insatiable ambition. Or to frustrate his rightful claims so they could fight among themselves for whatever was left, depending on who you asked. Cosca had a faraway smile on his face as he watched them go. “You live long enough, you see everything ruined. Caprile, a shell of her former glory.”

Vitari grinned at Monza. “That was one of yours, no?”

“Musselia most shamefully capitulated to Orso in spite of her impenetrable walls.”

Vitari grinned wider. “Wasn’t that one of yours too?”

“Borletta fallen,” Cosca lamented, “bold Duke Cantain dead.”

“Yes,” growled Monza, before Vitari could open her mouth.

“The invincible League of Eight has withered to a company of five and will soon dwindle to a party of four, with three of those far from keen on the whole notion.”