“Soon. General Ganmark isn’t a man to turn up late to an engagement.” She paused for a moment, frowning, as always. “When are you going to say you told me?”

“Told you what?”

“About Orso.”

“You know what I told you.”

“Never trust your own employer.” A lesson he had learned at great cost from Duchess Sefeline of Ospria. “And now I’m the one paying your wages.”

Cosca made an effort at a grin, though it hurt his sore lips to do it. “But we are fittingly suspicious in all our dealings with each other.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t trust you to carry my shit to the stream.”

“A shame. Your shit smells sweet as roses, I am sure.” He leaned back against the parapet and blinked into the sun. “Do you remember how we used to spar, in the mornings? Before you got too good.”

“Before you got too drunk.”

“Well, I could hardly spar afterwards, could I? There is a limit to how much a man should be willing to embarrass himself before breakfast. Is that a Calvez you have there?”

She lifted the sword, sun’s gleam gliding along its edge. “I had it made for Benna.”

“For Benna? What the hell would he do with a Calvez? Use it as a spit and cook apples on it?”

“He didn’t even do that much, as it goes.”

“I used to have one, you know. Damn good sword. Lost it in a card game. Drink?” He held out the jug.

She reached for it. “I could—”

“Hah!” He flung the water in her face and she yelped, stumbling back, drops flying. He ripped his sword from its sheath and as the jug shattered against the roof he was already swinging. She managed to parry the first cut, ducked desperately under the second, slipped, sprawled, rolled away as Cosca’s blade squealed down the roofing lead where she had been a moment before. She came up in a crouch, sword at the ready.

“You’re getting soft, Murcatto.” He chuckled as he paced out into the centre of the roof. “You’d never have fallen for the old water in the face ten years ago.”

“I didn’t fall for it just now, idiot.” She wiped her brow slowly with her gloved hand, water dripping from the ends of her wet hair, never taking her eyes from his. “You got anything more than water in the face, or is that as far as your swordsmanship reaches these days?”

Not much further, if he was honest. “Why don’t we find out?”

She sprang forwards and their blades feathered together, metal ringing and scraping. She had a long scar on her bare right shoulder, another curving round her forearm and into her black glove.

He waved his sword at it. “Fighting left-handed, eh? Hope you’re not taking pity on an old man.”

“Pity? You know me better than that.” He flicked away a jab, but another came so quickly behind it he only just got out of the way, the blade punching a ragged hole in his shirt before it whipped back out.