“Fucking magic,” he mumbled. “Even worse’n banking.”

She crept up, all white-toothed, hungry grin, touched one finger to the pick on the back of his axe and pushed it gently down towards the floor. “Do I take it you murdered your old friend Faithful Carpi to your satisfaction?”

Monza slapped her sword back into its sheath. “Faithful’s dead, if that’s the point of your fucking performance.”

“You have a strange manner of celebration.” She lifted her long arms to the ceiling. “Vengeance is yours! Praise be to God!”

“Orso still lives.”

“Ah, yes.” Ishri opened her eyes very wide, so wide Shivers wondered if they might drop out. “When Orso dies you will smile.”

“What do you care whether I smile?”

“I, care? Not a particle. You Styrians have a habit of boasting, and boasting, and never following through. I am pleased to find one who can get the job done. Do the job, scowl by all means.” She ran her fingers across the table-top then casually snuffed the flames of the burners out with the palm of her hand. “Speaking of which, you told our mutual friend Duke Rogont you could bring the Thousand Swords over to his side, as I recall?”

“If the Emperor’s gold is forthcoming—”

“In your shirt pocket.”

Monza frowned as she pulled something from her pocket and held it up to the light. A big red-gold coin, shining with that special warmth gold has that somehow makes you want to hold it. “Very nice, but it’ll take more than one.”

“Oh, there’ll be more. The mountains of Gurkhul are made of gold, I hear.” She peered at the charred edges of the hole in the corner of the barn, then happily clicked her tongue. “I still have it.” And she twisted her body through the gap like a fox through a fence and was gone.

Shivers left it a moment, then leaned close to Monza. “Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something odd about her.”

“You’ve got this amazing sense for people, haven’t you?” She turned without smiling and left the barn.

Shivers stood there a moment longer, frowning down at Day’s body, working his face around, feeling the scars on the left side stretching, shifting, itching. Cosca dead, Day dead, Vitari gone, Friendly gone, Morveer fled and, by the look of things, turned against them. So much for the merry company. He should’ve been all nostalgic for the happy friends of long ago, the bands of brothers he’d been a part of. United in a common cause, even if it was no more’n staying alive. Dogman, and Harding Grim, and Tul Duru. Black Dow, even, all men with a code. All faded into the past, and left him alone. Down here in Styria, where no one had any code that meant a thing.

Even then, his right eye was about as close to crying as his left.

He scratched at the scar on his cheek. Ever so gently, just with his fingertips. He winced, scratched harder. And harder still. He stopped himself, hissing through his teeth. Now it itched worse than ever, and hurt into the bargain. He’d yet to work out a way to scratch that itch that didn’t make matters worse.