“Whatever you say, General,” said Andiche.

“Whatever you say,” echoed Victus. “Good to have you back.”

Sesaria leaned down, muttering something in Cosca’s ear. The new captain general recoiled as though stung. “Give them over to Duke Orso? Absolutely not! Today is a happy day! A joyous occasion for one and all! There’ll be no killing here, not today.” He wafted a hand at her as though he was shooing a cat out of the kitchen. “You can go. Better not come back tomorrow, though. We might not be so joyous, then.”

Monza took a step towards him, a curse half-out of her mouth. There was a rattling of metal as the assorted captains began to draw their weapons. Friendly blocked her path, arms coming uncrossed, hands dropping to his sides, expressionless face turned towards her. She stopped still. “I need to kill Orso!”

“And if you manage it, your brother will live again, yes?” Cosca cocked his head to one side. “You’ll get your hand back? No?”

She was cold all over, skin prickling. “He deserves what’s coming!”

“Ah, but most of us do. All of us will get it regardless. How many others will you suck into your little vortex of slaughter in the meantime?”

“For Benna—”

“No. For you. I know you, don’t forget. I’ve stood where you stand now, beaten, betrayed, disgraced, and come out the other side. As long as you have men to kill you are still Monzcarro Murcatto, the great and fearsome! Without that, what are you?” Cosca’s lip curled. “A lonely cripple with a bloody past.”

The words were strangled in her throat. “Please, Cosca, you have to—”

“I don’t have to do a thing. We’re even, remember? More than even, say I. Out of my sight, snake, before I pack you off back to Duke Orso in a jar. You need a job, Northman?”

Shivers’ good eye crept across to Monza, and for a moment she was sure he’d say yes. Then he slowly shook his head. “I’ll stick with the chief I’ve got.”

“Loyalty, eh?” Cosca snorted. “Be careful with that nonsense, it can get you killed!” A scattering of laughter. “The Thousand Swords is no place for loyalty, eh, boys? We’ll have none of that childishness here!” More laughter, a score or more hard grins all aimed at Monza.

She felt dizzy. The tent seemed too bright and too dark at once. Her nose caught a waft of something—sweaty bodies, or strong drink, or stinking cooking, or a latrine pit too close to the headquarters, and her stomach turned over, set her mouth to watering. A smoke, oh please, a smoke. She turned on her heel, somewhat unsteadily, shoved her way between a couple of chuckling men and through the flap, out of the tent and into the bright morning.

Outside it was far worse. Sunlight stabbed at her. Faces, dozens of them, blurred together into a mass of eyes, all fixed on her. A jury of scum. She tried to look ahead, always ahead, but she couldn’t stop her lids from flickering. She tried to walk in the old way, head back, but her knees were trembling so hard she was sure they must be able to hear them slapping against the insides of her trousers. It was as if she’d been putting off the fear, the weakness, the pain. Putting it off, storing it up, and now it was breaking on her in one great wave, sweeping her under, helpless. Her skin was icy with cold sweat. Her hand was aching all the way to her neck. They saw what she really was. Saw she’d lost. A lonely cripple with a bloody past, just like Cosca said. Her guts shifted and she gagged, an acid tickle at the back of her throat. The world lurched.