“Glory, boys, glory, and a decent pay-off!”

Their frowns turned to grins, they tapped their weapons against their shields, their helmets, their breastplates, sending up an approving rattle.

“General!”

“The captain general!”

“Cosca!”

“Boys, boys!” He chuckled, thumping arms, shaking hands, giving out lazy salutes. All as far from her style of command as could’ve been. She’d had to stay cold, hard, untouchable, or there would have been no respect. A woman can’t afford the luxury of being friendly with the men. So she’d let Benna do the laughing for her. Probably why the laughter had been thin on the ground since Orso killed him.

“And up here is my little home from home.” Cosca led them up a ladder and into a kind of shed built from heavy logs, lit by a pair of flickering lamps. There was a wide opening in one wall, the setting sun casting its last glare over the dark, flat country to the west. Narrow windows faced towards the fortress. A stack of crates took up one corner, the captain general’s chair sat in another. Beside it a table was covered with a mess of scattered cards, half-eaten sweetmeats and bottles of varying colour and fullness. “How goes the fight?”

Friendly sat cross-legged, dice between his knees. “It goes.”

Monza moved to one of the narrow windows. It was almost night, now, and she could barely see any sign of the assault. Perhaps the odd flicker of movement at the tiny battlements, the odd glint of metal in the light of the bonfires scattered across the rocky slopes. But she could hear it. Vague shouting, faint screaming, clattering metal, floating indistinctly on the breeze.

Cosca slid into the battered captain general’s chair and rattled the bottles by putting his muddy boots up on the table. “We four, together again! Just like Cardotti’s House of Leisure! Just like Salier’s gallery! Happy times, eh?”

There was the creaking swoosh of a catapult released and a blazing missile sizzled overhead, shattered against the great foremost tower of the fortress, sending up a gout of flame, shooting out arcs of glittering embers. The dull flare illuminated ladders against the stonework, tiny figures crawling up them, steel glimmering briefly then fading back into the black.

“You sure this is the best time for jokes?” Monza muttered.

“Unhappy times are the best for levity. You don’t light candles in the middle of the day, do you?”

Shivers was frowning up the slope towards Fontezarmo. “You really think you’ve a chance of carrying those walls?”

“Those? Are you mad? They’re some of the strongest in Styria.”

“Then why—”

“Bad form to just sit outside and do nothing. They have ample stocks of food, water, weapons and, worst of all, loyalty. They might last months in there. Months during which Orso’s daughter, the Queen of the Union, might prevail upon her reluctant husband to send aid.” Monza wondered whether the king learning that his wife preferred women would make any difference…

“How’s watching your men fall off a wall going to help?” asked Shivers.