“Monza…”

“Yes?”

“Let’s make this the last season on campaign,” Benna wheedled. “The last summer in the dust. Let’s find something more comfortable to do. Now, while we’re young.”

“What about the Thousand Swords? Closer to ten thousand now, all looking to us for orders.”

“They can look elsewhere. They joined us for plunder and we’ve given them plenty. They’ve no loyalty beyond their own profit.”

She had to admit the Thousand Swords had never represented the best of mankind, or even the best of mercenaries. Most of them were a step above the criminal. Most of the rest were a step below. But that wasn’t the point. “You have to stick at something in your life,” she grunted.

“I don’t see why.”

“That’s you all over. One more season and Visserine will fall, and Rogont will surrender, and the League of Eight will be just a bad memory. Orso can crown himself King of Styria, and we can melt away and be forgotten.”

“We deserve to be remembered. We could have our own city. You could be the noble Duchess Monzcarro of… wherever—”

“And you the fearless Duke Benna?” She laughed at that. “You stupid arse. You can scarcely govern your own bowels without my help. War’s a dark enough trade, I draw the line at politics. Orso crowned, then we retire.”

Benna sighed. “I thought we were mercenaries. Cosca never stuck to an employer like this.”

“I’m not Cosca. And anyway, it’s not wise to say no to the Lord of Talins.”

“You just love to fight.”

“No. I love to win. Just one more season, then we can see the world. Visit the Old Empire. Tour the Thousand Isles. Sail to Adua and stand in the shadow of the House of the Maker. Everything we talked about.” Benna pouted, just as he always did when he didn’t get his way. He pouted, but he never said no. It scratched at her, sometimes, that she always had to make the choices. “Since we’ve clearly only got one pair of balls between us, don’t you ever feel the need to borrow them yourself?”

“They look better on you. Besides, you’ve got all the brains. It’s best they stay together.”

“What do you get from the deal?”

Benna grinned at her. “The winning smile.”

“Smile, then. For one more season.” She swung down from her saddle, jerked her sword belt straight, tossed the reins at the groom and strode for the inner gatehouse. Benna had to hurry to catch up, getting tangled with his own sword on the way. For a man who earned his living from war, he’d always been an embarrassment where weapons were concerned.

The inner courtyard was split into wide terraces at the summit of the mountain, planted with exotic palms and even more heavily guarded than the outer. An ancient column said to come from the palace of Scarpius stood tall in the centre, casting a shimmering reflection in a round pool teeming with silvery fish. The immensity of glass, bronze and marble that was Duke Orso’s palace towered around it on three sides like a monstrous cat with a mouse between its paws. Since the spring they’d built a vast new wing along the northern wall, its festoons of decorative stonework still half-shrouded in scaffolding.