“Gloating’s fun.” Victus reached for his glass, smirking eyes never leaving Cosca, glinting point of the flatbow bolt steady as stone, and quickly tossed back his spirit in one swallow. “Yeuch.” He stuck his tongue out. “Damn, that stuff is sour.”

“Sweeter than my situation,” muttered Cosca. “I suppose now the captain general’s chair will be yours.” A shame. He’d only just got used to sitting in it again himself.

Victus snorted. “Why would I want the fucking thing? Hasn’t done much good for the arses on it up to now, has it? Sazine, you, the Murcattos, Faithful Carpi, and you again. Each one ended up dead or close to it, and all the while I’ve stood behind, and got a lot richer than a nasty little bastard like me deserves.” He winced, put one hand on his stomach. “No, I’ll find some new idiot to sit there, I think, and make me richer’n ever.” He grimaced again. “Ah, shit on that stuff. Ah!” He staggered up from his chair, clutching the edge of the table, a thick vein bulging from his forehead. “What’ve you done to me, you old bastard?” He squinted over, flatbow suddenly wobbling.

Cosca flung himself forwards. The trigger clicked, the bowstring twanged, the bolt clattered against the plaster just to his left. He rolled up beside the table with a whoop of triumph, raising his knife. “Hah hah—”

Victus’ bow bashed him in the face, just above his eye. “Gurgh!” Cosca’s vision was suddenly filled with light, his knees wobbling wildly. He clutched at the table, waved his knife at nothing. “Sfup.” Hands closed around his throat. Hands crusted with heavy rings. Victus’ pink face loomed up before his, spit spluttering from his twisted mouth.

Cosca’s boots went out from under him, the room flipped over, his head crashed into the table. And all was dark.

The battle under the dome was over, and between the two sides they’d made quite a mess of Orso’s cherished rotunda. The glittering mosaic floor and the sweeping steps above it were strewn with corpses, scattered with fallen weapons, dashed and spattered, pooled and puddled with dark blood.

The mercenaries had won—if a dozen of them left standing counted as a victory. “Help me!” one of the wounded was screeching. “Help me!” But his fellows had other things on their minds.

“Get these fucking things open!” The one taking charge was Secco, the corporal who’d been on guard when she rode into the Thousand Swords’ camp only to find Cosca there ahead of her. He dragged a dead Talinese soldier out of the way of the lion-head doors and dumped the corpse down the stairs. “You! Find an axe!”

Monza frowned. “Orso’ll have more men in there for sure. We’d better wait for help.”

“Wait? And split the takings?” Secco gave her a withering sneer. “Fuck yourself, Murcatto, you don’t give us orders no more! Get it open!” Two men started battering away with axes, splinters of veneer flying. The rest of the survivors jostled dangerously close behind them, breathless with greed. It seemed the doors had been made to impress guests, not keep out armies. They shuddered, loosening on their hinges. A few more blows and one axe broke clean through, a great chunk of wood splintering away. Secco whooped in triumph as he rammed his spear into the gap, levering the bar on the other side out of its brackets. He fumbled with the ragged edge, pulling the doors wide.