“You sure Orso’s inside?” she called to Victus.

“Oh, we’re sure. Cosca spoke to him, first day.”

Monza didn’t draw much comfort from that idea. When Cosca started talking to an enemy he usually ended up richer and on the other side. “What did those two bastards have to say to each other?”

“Ask Cosca.”

“I will.”

“We’ve got the place surrounded, don’t worry about that. Trenches on three sides.” Victus slapped the earth beside them. “If you can trust a mercenary to do one thing, it’s dig himself a damn good hole to hide in. Then there’s pickets down in the woods at the bottom of the cliff.” The woods where Monza had slid to a halt in the rubbish, broken to pulp, groaning like the dead in hell. “And a wide selection of Styria’s finest soldiery further out. Osprians, Sipanese, Affoians, in numbers. All set on seeing our old employer dead. There ain’t a rat getting out without our say-so. But then if Orso wanted to run, he could’ve run weeks ago. He didn’t. You know him better than anyone, don’t you? You reckon he’ll try and run now?”

“No,” she had to admit. He’d sooner die, which suited her fine. “How about us getting in?”

“Whoever designed the bastard place knew what they were doing. Ground around the inner ward’s way too steep to try anything.”

“I could’ve told you that. North side of the outer ward’s your best chance at an assault, then try the inner wall from there.”

“Our very thoughts, but there’s a gulf between thinking and doing, specially when high walls are part of the case. No luck yet.” Victus clambered up on a box and beckoned to her. Between two wicker screens, beyond a row of sharpened stakes pointing up the broken slope, she could see the nearest corner of the fortress. One of the towers was on fire, its tall roof fallen in leaving only a cone of naked beams wreathed in flames, notches of battlements picked out in red and yellow, black smoke belching into the dark blue sky. “We set that tower to burning,” he pointed proudly towards it, “with a catapult.”

“Beautiful. We can all go home.”

“Something, ain’t it?” He led them through a long dugout smelling of damp and sour sweat, men snoring on pallets down both sides. “ ‘Wars are won not by one great action,’ ” intoning the words like a bad actor, “ ‘but many small chances.’ Weren’t you always telling us that? Who was it? Stalicus?”

“Stolicus, you dunce.”

“Some dead bastard. Anyway, Cosca’s got a plan, but I’ll let him tell you himself. You know how the old man loves to put on a show.” Victus stopped at a hollow in the rock where four trenches came together, sheltered by a roof of gently flapping canvas and lit by a single rustling torch. “The captain general said he’d be along. Feel free to make use of the facilities while you wait.” Facilities which amounted to dirt. “Unless there’s anything else, your Excellency?”