“Look!” It was cold but Shivers’ face was all beaded up with sweat. “We’re not with Orso! I don’t know nothing about his army. I just… I just don’t know!”

“It’s the truth,” Monza croaked, but so quiet no one could hear her. Even that started her coughing, each heave stabbing through her battered ribs.

Pello slid one arm around Shivers’ head, elbow under his jaw, his other hand firm behind, tilting his face back.

“No!” squawked Shivers, the one bulging eye Monza could see rolling towards her. “It was her! Murcatto! She hired me! To kill seven men! Vengeance, for her brother! And… and—”

“You’ve got him?” asked Langrier.

“I’ve got him.”

Shivers’ voice rose higher. “It was her! She wants to kill Duke Orso!” He was trembling now, teeth chattering together. “We did Gobba, and a banker! A banker… called Mauthis! Poisoned him, and then… and then… Prince Ario, in Sipani! At Cardotti’s! And now—”

Langrier stuck a battered wooden dowel between his jaws, putting a quick end to his wasted confession. “Wouldn’t want you to chew your tongue off. Still need you to tell me something worth hearing.”

“I’ve got money!” croaked Monza, her voice starting to come back.

“What?”

“I’ve got money! Gold! Boxes full of it! Not with me, but… Hermon’s gold! Just—”

Langrier chuckled. “You’d be amazed how everyone remembers buried treasure at a time like this. Doesn’t often work out.”

Pello grinned. “If I had just a tenth of what I’ve been promised in this room I’d be a rich man. I’m not, in case you’re wondering.”

“But if you did have boxes full of gold, where the hell would I spend it now? You came a few weeks too late to bribe us. The Talinese are all around the city. Money’s no use here.” Langrier rubbed at her shoulder, winced, worked her arm in a circle, then dragged an iron from the brazier. It squealed out with the sound of metal on metal, sent up a drifting shower of orange sparks and a sick twist of fear through Monza’s churning guts.

“It’s true,” she whispered. “It’s true.” But all the strength had gone out of her.

“ ’Course it is.” And Langrier stepped forwards and pressed the yellow-hot metal into Shivers’ face. It made a sound like a slice of bacon dropped into a pan, but louder, and with his mindless, blubbering screech on top of it, of course. His back arched, his body thrashed and trembled like a fish on a line, but Pello kept his grip on him, grim-faced.

Greasy steam shot up, a little gout of flame that Langrier blew out with a practised puff of air through pursed lips, grinding the iron one way then the other, into his eye. While she did it, she had the same look she might have had wiping a table. A tedious, distasteful chore that had fallen to her and unfortunately had to be done.

The sizzling grew quieter. Shivers’ scream had become a moaning hiss, the last air in his lungs being dragged out of him, spit spraying from his stretched-back lips, frothing from the wood between his bared teeth. Langrier stepped away. The iron had cooled to dark orange, smeared down one side with smoking black ash. She tossed it clattering back into the coals with some distaste.