The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Blunt, you say? If you spoke to Orso in such a manner it is small wonder he threw you down a mountain. I almost wish I had a long drop handy. Tell me, since candour seems the fashion, what did you do to anger Orso so? I thought he loved you like a daughter? Far more than his own children, not that any of those three ever were so very lovable—fox, shrew and mouse.”

Her bruised cheek twitched. “I became too popular with his people.”

“Yes. And?”

“He was afraid I might steal his throne.”

“Indeed? And I suppose your eyes were never turned upon it?”

“Only to keep him in it.”

“Truly?” Salier grinned sideways at Cosca. “It would hardly have been the first chair your loyal claws tore from under its owner, would it?”

“I did nothing!” she barked. “Except win his battles, make him the greatest man in Styria. Nothing!”

The Duke of Visserine sighed. “I have a fat body, Monzcarro, not a fat head, but have it your way. You are all innocence. Doubtless you handed out cakes at Caprile as well, rather than slaughter. Keep your secrets if you please. Much good may they do you now.”

Cosca narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare as they stepped out of an open doorway, through an echoing arcade and into the pristine garden at the centre of Salier’s gallery. Water trickled in pools at its corners. A pleasant breeze made the new flowers nod, stirred the leaves of the topiary, plucked specks of blossom from Suljuk cherry trees, no doubt torn from their native soil and brought across the sea for the amusement of the Duke of Visserine.

A magnificent sculpture towered over them in the midst of a cobbled space, twice life-size or more, carved from perfectly white, almost translucent marble. A naked man, lean as a dancer and muscular as a wrestler, one arm extended and with a bronze sword, turned dark and streaked with green, thrust forwards in the fist. As if directing a mighty army to storm the dining room. He had a helmet pushed back on the top of his head, a frown of stern command on his perfect features.

“The Warrior,” murmured Cosca, as the shadow of the great blade fell across his eyes, the glare of sunlight blazing along its edge.

“Yes, by Bonatine, greatest of all Styrian sculptors, and this perhaps his greatest work, carved at the height of the New Empire. It originally stood on the steps of the Senate House in Borletta. My father took it as an indemnity after the Summer War.”

“He fought a war?” Monza’s split lip curled. “For this?”

“Only a small one. But it was worth it. Beautiful, is it not?”

“Beautiful,” Cosca lied. To the starving man, bread is beautiful. To the homeless man, a roof is beautiful. To the drunkard, wine is beautiful. Only those who want for nothing else need find beauty in a lump of rock.