“And I’m your way.”

She looked back up at him, and her eyes were hard. “Can you do it?”

“I could’ve done it today.” He’d thought of splitting her head with his axe. He’d thought of planting his boot on her face and shoving her under the water. Then she’d have had to respect him. But instead he’d saved her. Because he’d been hoping. Maybe he still was… but hoping had made a fool of him. And Shivers was good and sick of looking the fool.

How many men had he killed? In all those battles, skirmishes, desperate fights up in the North? Just in the half-year since he came to Styria, even? At Cardotti’s, in the smoke and the madness? Among the statues in Duke Salier’s palace? In the battle just a few hours back? It might’ve been a score. More. And women among ’em. He was steeped in blood, deep as the Bloody-Nine himself. Didn’t seem likely that adding one more to the tally would cost him a place among the righteous. His mouth twisted.

“I could do it.” It was plain as the scar on his face that Monza cared nothing for him. Why should he care anything for her? “I could do it easily.”

“Then do it.” She crept forwards on her hands and knees, mouth half-open, pale tits hanging heavy, looking him right in his one eye. “For me.” Her nipples brushed against his chest, one way then the other as she crawled over him. “For you.” Her necklace of blood-red stones clicked gently against his chin. “For us.”

“I’ll need to pick my moment.” He slid his hand down her back and up onto her arse. “Caution first, eh?”

“Of course. Nothing done well is ever… rushed.”

His head was full of her scent, sweet smell of flowers mixed with the sharp smell of fucking. “She owes me money,” he growled, the last objection.

“Ah, money. I used to be a merchant, you know. Buying. Selling.” Her breath was hot on his neck, on his mouth, on his face. “And in my long experience, when people begin to talk prices, the deal is already done.” She nuzzled at him, lips brushing the mass of scar down his cheek. “Do this thing for me, and I promise you’ll get all you could ever spend.” The cool tip of her tongue lapped gently at the raw flesh round his metal eye, sweet and soothing. “I have an arrangement… with the Banking House… of Valint and Balk…”

So Much for Nothing

Silver gleamed in the sunlight with that special, mouth-watering twinkle that somehow only money has. A whole strongbox full of it, stacked in plain sight, drawing the eyes of every man in the camp more surely than if a naked countess had been sprawled suggestively upon the table. Piles of sparking, sparkling coins, freshly minted. Some of the cleanest currency in Styria, pressed into some of its grubbiest hands. A pleasing irony. The coins carried the scales on one side, of course, traditional symbol of Styrian commerce since the time of the New Empire. On the other, the stern profile of Grand Duke Orso of Talins. An even more pleasing irony, to Cosca’s mind, that he was paying the men of the Thousand Swords with the face of the man they had but lately betrayed.