Ganmark made a sucking sound like water draining from a broken bath, and coughed blood down the front of his uniform. His head fell forwards, steel clattering from his dangling hand.

There was a moment of stillness.

“Now that,” croaked Cosca, “is what I call a happy accident.”

Four dead, three left. Monza saw someone creep out from one of the colonnades, grimaced as she shuffled to her sword and dragged it up for the third time, hardly sure which ruined hand to hold it in. It was Day, loaded flatbow levelled. Friendly trudged along behind her, knife and cleaver hanging from his fists.

“You got him?” asked the girl.

Monza looked at Ganmark’s corpse, kneeling spitted on the great length of bronze. “Stolicus did.”

Cosca had kicked his way as far as one of the cherry trees and sat with his back against the trunk. He looked just like a man relaxing on a summer’s day. Apart from the bloody hand pressed to his stomach. She limped up to him, stuck the Calvez point-first into the turf and knelt down.

“Let me have a look.” She fumbled with the buttons on Cosca’s jacket, but before she got the second one undone he reached up, gently took her bloody hand and her twisted one in his.

“I’ve been waiting years for you to tear my clothes off, but I think I’ll have politely to decline. I’m finished.”

“You? Never.”

He squeezed her hands tighter. “Right through the guts, Monza. It’s over.” His eyes rolled towards the gate, and she could hear the faint clattering as soldiers on the other side struggled to lever the portcullis open. “And you’ll have other problems soon enough. Four of seven, though, girl.” He grinned. “Never thought you’d make four of seven.”

“Four of seven,” muttered Friendly, behind her.

“I wish I could’ve made Orso one of them.”

“Well.” Cosca raised his brows. “It’s a noble calling, but I guess you can’t kill everyone.”

Shivers was walking slowly over from one of the doorways. He barely even glanced at Ganmark’s impaled corpse as he passed. “None left?”

“Not in here.” Friendly nodded towards the gate. “Some out there, though.”

“Reckon so.” The Northman stopped not far away. His hanging axe, his dented shield, his pale face and the bandages across one half of it were all dashed and speckled dark red.

“You alright?” asked Monza.

“Don’t rightly know what I am.”

“Are you hurt, I’m asking?”

He touched one hand to the bandages. “No worse’n before we started… reckon I must be beloved o’ the moon today, as the hillmen say.” His eye rolled down to her bloody shoulder, her bloody hand. “You’re bleeding.”

“My fencing lesson turned ugly.”

“You need a bandage?”

She nodded towards the gateway, the noise of the Talinese soldiers on the other side getting louder with every moment. “We’ll be lucky if we get the time to bleed to death.”

“What now, then?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. There was no use fighting, even if she’d had the strength. The palace would be swarming with Orso’s soldiers. There was no use surrendering, even if she’d been the type. They’d be lucky if they made it back to Fontezarmo to be killed. Benna had always warned her she didn’t think far enough ahead, and it seemed he’d had a point—