The boy raised a silent finger to point at Shenkt. The other two abandoned their argument to stare at him. “Who the hell are you?” demanded the spoon-thief.

“The woman who made you lose your cutlery,” asked Shenkt. “Murcatto?”

“Who the hell are you, I asked?”

“No one. Only passing through.”

“That so?” He grinned at his fellows as he drew his sword. “Well, this room’s ours, and there’s a toll.”

“There’s a toll,” hissed the one with the breastplate, in a tone no doubt meant to be intimidating.

The two of them spread out, the boy reluctantly following their lead. “What have you got for us?” asked the first.

Shenkt looked him in the eye as he came close, and gave him a chance. “Nothing you want.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” His gaze settled on the ruby ring on Shenkt’s forefinger. “What about that?”

“It isn’t mine to give.”

“Then it’s ours to take.” They closed in, the one with the pocked face prodding at Shenkt with his sword. “Hands behind your head, bastard, and get on your knees.”

Shenkt frowned. “I do not kneel.”

The three zipping flies slowed, drifting lazily, then hanging almost still.

Slowly, slowly, the spoon-thief’s hungry leer turned into a snarl.

Slowly, slowly, his arm drifted back for a thrust.

Shenkt stepped around his sword, the edge of his hand sank deep into the thief’s chest then tore back out. A great chunk of rib and breastbone was ripped out with it, flew spinning through the air to embed itself deep in the ceiling.

Shenkt brushed the sword aside, seized the next man by his breastplate and flung him across the room, his head crumpling against the far wall, blood showering out under such pressure it made a great star of spatters across the gilded wallpaper from floor to ceiling. The flies were sucked from their places by the wind of his passing, dragged through the air in mad spirals. The ear-splitting bang of his skull exploding joined the hiss of blood spraying from his friend’s caved-in chest and all over the gaping boy as time resumed its normal flow.

“The woman who made your friend lose his cutlery.” Shenkt flicked the few drops of blood from his hand. “Murcatto?”

The boy nodded dumbly.

“Which way did she go?”

His wide eyes rolled towards the far door.

“Good.” Shenkt would have liked to be kind. But then this boy might have run and brought more men, and there would have been further entanglements. Sometimes you must take one life to spare more, and when those times come, sentiment helps nobody. One of his old master’s lessons that Shenkt had never forgotten. “I am sorry for this.”

With a sharp crack, his forefinger sank up to the knuckle in the boy’s forehead.

They smashed their way through the kitchens, both doing their level worst to kill each other. Shivers hadn’t planned on this but his blood was boiling now. Friendly was in his fucking way, and had to be got out of it, simple as that. It had become a point of pride. Shivers was better armed, he had the reach, he had the shield. But Friendly was slippery as an eel and patient as winter. Backing off, dropping away, forcing nothing, giving no openings. All he had was his cleaver, but Shivers knew he’d killed enough men with that alone, and didn’t plan on adding his name to the list.