“Men rarely see that ’til the ground’s rushing at ’em.”

“All too true. And I fear many of the rich men of Visserine will be tumbling soon…”

Friendly lit a torch, Vitari too, and Day a third, set at the front of the cart to light the way. Torches were lit all round them, ’til the road was a trickle of tiny lights in the darkness, winding through the dark country towards the sea. Would’ve made a pretty picture, at another time, but not now. War was coming, and no one was in a pretty mood.

The closer they came to the city, the more choked the road got with people, and the more rubbish was scattered either side of it. Half of ’em seemed desperate to get into Visserine and find some walls to hide behind, the other half to get out and find some open country to run through. It was a bastard of a choice for farmers, when war was on the way. Stick to your land and get a dose of fire and robbery for certain, with rape or murder more’n likely. Make for a town on the chance they’ll find room for you, risk being robbed by your protectors, or caught up in the sack if the place falls. Or run for the hills to hide, maybe get caught, maybe starve, maybe just die of an icy night.

War killed some soldiers, sure, but it left the rest with money, and songs to sing, and a fire to sit around. It killed a lot more farmers, and left the rest with nought but ashes.

Just to lift the mood rain started flitting down through the darkness, spitting and hissing as it fell on the flickering torches, white streaks through the circles of light around ’em. The road turned to sticky mud. Shivers felt the wet tickle his scalp, but his thoughts were far off. Same place they’d tended to stray to these last few weeks. Back to Cardotti’s, and the dark work he’d done there.

His brother had always told him it was about the lowest thing a man could do, kill a woman. Respect for womenfolk, and children, sticking to the old ways and your word, that was what set men apart from animals, and Carls from killers. He hadn’t meant to do it, but when you swing steel in a crowd you can’t duck the blame for the results. The good man he’d come here to be should’ve been gnawing his nails to the bloody quick over what he’d done. But all he could get in his head when he thought of his blade chopping a bloody chunk out of her ribs, the hollow sound it made, her staring face as she slid dying down the wall, was relief he’d got away with it.

Killing a woman by mistake in a brothel was murder, evil as it got, but killing a man on purpose in a battle was all kinds of noble? A thing to take pride in, sing songs of? Time was, gathered round a fire up in the cold North, that had seemed simple and obvious. But Shivers couldn’t see the difference so sharp as he’d used to. And it wasn’t like he’d got himself confused. He’d suddenly got it clear. You set to killing folk, there’s no right place to stop that means a thing.