“At once?”

“Why not?”

“The steel will take an hour or two to fit. Preparing a set of enamels usually requires at least a fortnight—” Monza tossed a stack of silver coins onto the counter and they jingled as they spilled across the stone. Scopal humbly bowed his head. “I will fit the closest I have, and have the rest ready by tomorrow evening.” He turned the lamp up so bright Shivers had to shield his good eye with one hand. “It will be necessary to make some incisions.”

“Some whats, now?”

“Cuts,” said Monza.

“ ’Course it will. Nothing in life worth doing that doesn’t need a blade, eh?”

Scopal shuffled the instruments around on the little table. “Followed by some stitches, the removal of the useless flesh—”

“Dig out the dead wood? I’m all for it. Let’s have a fresh start.”

“Might I suggest a pipe?”

“Fuck, yes,” he heard Monza whisper.

“Suggest away,” said Shivers. “I’m getting bored o’ pain the last few weeks.”

The eye-maker bowed his head, eased off to charge the pipe. “I remember you getting your hair cut,” said Monza. “Nervous as a lamb at its first shearing.”

“Heh. True.”

“Now look at you, keen to be fitted for an eye.”

“A wise man once told me you have to be realistic. Strange how fast we change, ain’t it, when we have to?”

She frowned back at him. “Don’t change too far. I’ve got to go.”

“No stomach for the eye-making business?”

“I’ve got to renew an acquaintance.”

“Old friend?”

“Old enemy.”

Shivers grinned. “Dearer yet. Watch you don’t get killed, eh?” And he settled back in the chair, pulled the strap tight round his forehead. “We’ve still got work to do.” He closed his good eye, the lamplight glowing pink through the lid.

Prince of Prudence

Grand Duke Rogont had made his headquarters in the Imperial Bath-Hall. The building was still one of the greatest in Puranti, casting half the square at the east end of the old bridge into shadow. But like the rest of the city, it had seen better centuries. Half its great pediment and two of the six mighty pillars that once held it up had collapsed lifetimes before, the stone pilfered for the mismatched walls of newer, meaner buildings. The stained masonry sprouted with grass, with dead ivy, with a couple of stubborn little trees, even. Probably baths had been a higher priority when it was built, before everyone in Styria started trying to kill each other. Happy times, when keeping the water hot enough had been anyone’s biggest worry. The crumbling building might have whispered of the glories of a lost age, but made a sad comment on Styria’s long decline.

If Monza had cared a shit.

But she had other things on her mind. She waited for a gap to appear between one tramping company of Rogont’s retreating army and the next, then she forced her shoulders back and strode across the square. Up the cracked steps of the Bath-Hall, trying to walk with all her old swagger while her crooked hip bone clicked back and forth in its socket and sent stings right through her arse. She pushed her hood back, keeping her eyes fixed on the foremost of the guards, a grizzled-looking veteran wide as a door with a scar down one colourless cheek.