Rogont waited in silence until they were alone, then gave a heavy sigh. “You told me she would come, Ishri.”

“It is well that I never tire of being right.” Monza started. A dark-skinned woman lay on her back on a high windowsill, a good stride or two above Rogont’s head. Her legs were crossed, up against the wall, one arm and her head hanging off the back of the narrow ledge so that her face was almost upside down. “For it happens often.” She slid off backwards, flipped over at the last moment and dropped silently to all fours, nimble as a lizard.

Monza wasn’t sure how she’d missed her in the first place, but she didn’t like that she had. “What are you? An acrobat?”

“Oh, nothing so romantic as an acrobat. I am the East Wind. You can think of me as but one of the many fingers on God’s right hand.”

“You talk enough rubbish to be a priest.”

“Oh, nothing so dry and dusty as a priest.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “I am a passionate believer, in my way, but only men may take the robe, thanks be to God.”

Monza frowned. “An agent of the Gurkish Emperor.”

“Agent sounds so very… underhanded. Emperor, Prophet, Church, State. I would call myself a humble representative of Southern Powers.”

“What’s Styria to them?”

“A battlefield.” And she smiled wide. “Gurkhul and the Union may be at peace, but…”

“The fighting goes on.”

“Always. Orso’s allies are our enemies, so his enemies are our allies. We find ourselves with common cause.”

“The downfall of Grand Duke Orso of Talins,” muttered Rogont. “Please God.”

Monza curled her lip at him. “Huh. Praying to God now, Rogont?”

“To whoever will listen, and most fervently.”

The Gurkish woman stood, stretching up on tiptoe to the ends of her long fingers. “And you, Murcatto? Are you the answer to this poor man’s desperate prayers?”

“Maybe.”

“And he to yours, perhaps?”

“I’ve been often disappointed by the powerful, but I can hope.”

“You’d hardly be the first friend I’ve disappointed.” Rogont nodded towards the map. “They call me the Count of Caution. The Duke of Delay. The Prince of Prudence. Yet you would make an ally of me?”

“Look at me, Rogont, I’m almost as desperate as you are. ‘Great tempests,’ Farans said, ‘wash up strange companions.’ ”

“A wise man. How can I help my strange companion, then? And, more importantly, how can she help me?”

“I need to kill Faithful Carpi.”

“Why would we care for treacherous Carpi’s death?” Ishri sauntered forwards, head falling lazily onto one side, then further still. Too far to look at comfortably, let alone to do. “Are there not other captains among the Thousand Swords? Sesaria, Victus, Andiche?” Her eyes were pitch black, as empty and dead as the eye-maker’s replacements. “Will not one of those infamous vultures fill your old chair, keen to pick at the corpse of Styria?”

Rogont pouted. “And so my weary dance continues, but with a fresh partner. I win only the most fleeting reprieve.”