“A man with a record of pushing his employees down mountains.”

Morveer dismissed it. “One should never be foolish enough to trust the sort of person who would hire a poisoner. In that he is no worse an employer than any other. Why, it is a profound wonder the thought did not occur sooner!”

“But… we killed his son.”

“Bah! Such difficulties are easily explained away when two men find they need each other.” He airily waved one hand. “Some invention will suffice. Some wretched scapegoat can always be found to shoulder the blame.”

She nodded slowly, mouth set hard. “A scapegoat. Of course.”

“A wretched one.” One less mutilated Northman in the world would be no loss to posterity. Nor one less insane convict or abrasive torturer, for that matter. He was almost warming to the notion. “But I daresay for the time being we are stuck with Murcatto and her futile quest for revenge. Revenge. I swear, is there a more pointless, destructive, unsatisfying motive in all the world?”

“I thought motives weren’t our business,” observed Day, “only jobs and the pay.”

“Correct, my dear, very correct, every motive is a pure one that necessitates our services. You see straight to the heart of the matter as always, as though the matter were entirely transparent. Whatever would I do without you?” He came smiling around the apparatus. “How are our preparations proceeding?”

“Oh, I know what to do.”

“Good. Very good. Of course you do. You learned from a master.”

She bowed her head. “And I marked your lessons well.”

“Most excellent well.” He leaned down to flick at a condenser, watched the Larync essence dripping slowly down into the retort. “It is vital to be exhaustively prepared for any and every eventuality. Caution first, always, of—Ah!” He frowned down at his forearm. A tiny speck of red swelled, became a dot of blood. “What…” Day backed slowly away from him, an expression of the most peculiar intensity on her face. She held a mounted needle in her hand.

“Someone to take the blame?” she snarled at him. “Scapegoat, am I? Fuck yourself, bastard!”

Come on, come on, come on.” Faithful was pissing again, stood by his horse, back to Shivers, shaking his knees around. “Come on, come on. Bloody years catching up on me, that’s what this is.”

“That or your dark deeds,” said Swolle.

“I’ve done nothing black enough to deserve this shit, surely. You feel like you never had to go so bad in your life, then when you finally get your prick out, you end up stood here in the wind for an age of… ah… ah… there’s the fucker!” He leaned backwards, showing off his big bald spot. A brief spatter, then another. One more, he worked his shoulders around as he shook the drips off, and started lacing up again.

“That’s it?” asked Swolle.

“What’s your interest?” snapped the general. “To bottle it? Years catching up on me is all it is.” He picked his way up the slope bent over, heavy red cloak held out of the mud in one hand, and squatted down next to Shivers. “Right then. Right then. That’s the place?”