Cosca sat on his field chair, in the only part of the gardens that was still anything like intact, and watched his goat grazing on the wet grass. There was something oddly calming about her gradual, steady progress across the last remaining bit of lawn. The wriggling of her lips, the delicate nibbling of her teeth, the tiny movements that by patient repetition would soon shave that lawn down to stubble. He stuck a fingertip in his ear and waggled it around, trying to clear the faint ringing that still lurked at the edge of his hearing. It persisted. He sighed, raised his flask, heard footsteps crunching on gravel and stopped. Monza was walking towards him. She looked beyond tired, shoulders hunched, mouth twisted, eyes buried in dark pits.

“Why the hell do you have a goat?”

Cosca took a slow swig from his flask, grimaced and took another. “Noble beast, the goat. She reminds me, in your absence, to be tenacious, single-minded and hard-working. You have to stick at something in your life, Monzcarro.” The goat looked up, and bleated in apparent agreement. “I hope you won’t take offence if I say you look tired.”

“Long night,” she muttered, and Cosca judged it to be a tremendous understatement.

“I’m sure.”

“The Osprians pulled out of Talins. There was a riot. Panic.”

“Inevitable.”

“Someone spread a rumour that the Union fleet was on its way.”

“Rumours can do more damage than the ships themselves.”

“The crown was poisoned,” she muttered.

“The leaders of Styria, consumed by their own lust for power. There’s a message in there, wouldn’t you say? Murder and metaphor combined. The poisoner-poet responsible has managed to kill a chancellor, a duke, a countess, a first citizen and a king, and teach the world an invaluable lesson about life all in one evening. Your friend and mine, Morveer?”

She spat. “Maybe.”

“I never thought that pedantic bastard had such a sense of humour.”

“Forgive me if I don’t laugh.”

“Why did he spare you?”

“He didn’t.” Monza held up her gloved right hand. “My glove did.”

Cosca could not help a snort of laughter. “Just think, one could say that by crushing your right hand, Duke Orso and his cohorts saved your life! The ironies pile one upon the other!”

“I might wait for a more settled moment to enjoy them.”

“Oh, I’d enjoy them now. I’ve wasted years waiting for more settled moments. In my experience they never come. Only look around you. The Affoians almost all deserted before daybreak. The Sipanese are already splitting into factions, falling back south—to fight each other, would be my guess. The army of Puranti were so keen to get their civil war under way they actually started killing each other in the trenches. Victus had to break it up! Victus, stopping a fight, can you imagine? Some of the Osprians are still here, but only because they haven’t a clue what else to do. The lot of them, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Which I suppose they are. You know, I’m eternally amazed at just how quickly things can fall apart. Styria was united for perhaps the length of a minute and now is plunged into deeper chaos than ever. Who knows who’ll seize power, and where, and how much? It seems an end may have been called to the Years of Blood…” and Cosca stuck his chin out and gave his neck a scratch, “somewhat prematurely.”