One of the mercenaries was pleading, blubbering, begging for his life. Monza sat against the cold marble slab of the tabletop and listened to him, breathing hard, sweating hard, weighing the Calvez in her hand. It would be little better than useless against the heavy armour of Orso’s guards, even if she’d fancied taking on that many at once. She heard the damp squelch of a blade rammed into flesh and the pleading was cut off in a long scream and a short gurgle.

Not really a sound to give anyone confidence.

She peered round the edge of the table. She counted seven guards still standing, one ripping his spear free of a dead mercenary’s chest, two turning towards her, heavy swords ready, one working an axe from Secco’s split skull. Three were kneeling, busily cranking flatbows. Behind them stood the big round table on which the map of Styria was still unrolled. On the map was a crown, a ring of sparkling gold sprouting with gem-encrusted oak leaves, not unlike the one that had killed Rogont and his dream of Styria united. Beside the crown, dressed in black and with his iron-shot black hair and beard as neatly groomed as ever, stood Grand Duke Orso.

He saw her, and she saw him, and the anger boiled up, hot and comforting. One of his guards slipped a bolt into his flatbow and levelled it at her. She was about to duck behind the slab of marble when Orso held out one arm.

“Wait! Stop.” That same voice that she had never disobeyed in eight hard years. “Is that you, Monzcarro?”

“Damn right it is!” she snarled back. “Get ready to fucking die!” Though it looked as if she might be going first.

“I’ve been ready for some time,” he called out softly. “You’ve seen to that. Well done! My hopes are all in ruins, thanks to you.”

“You needn’t thank me!” she called. “It was Benna I did it for!”

“Ario is dead.”

“Hah!” she barked back. “That’s what happens when I stab a worthless cunt in the neck and throw him from a window!” A flurry of twitches crawled up Orso’s cheek. “But why pick him out? There was Gobba, and Mauthis, and Ganmark, and Faithful—I’ve slaughtered the whole crowd! Everyone who was in this room when you murdered my brother!”

“And Foscar? I’ve heard no word since the defeat at the fords.”

“You can stop listening!” Said with a glee she hardly felt. “Skull smashed to pulp on a farmhouse floor!”

The anger had all gone from Orso’s face and it hung terribly slack. “You must be happy.”

“I’m not fucking sad, I’ll tell you that!”

“Grand Duchess Monzcarro of Talins.” Orso tapped two fingers slowly against his palm, the sharp snaps echoing off the high ceiling. “I congratulate you on your victory. You have what you wanted after all!”

“What I wanted?” For a moment she could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You think I wanted this? After the battles I fought for you? The victories I won for you?” She was near shrieking, spitting with fury. She ripped her glove off with her teeth and shook her mutilated hand at him. “I fucking wanted this? What reason did we give you to betray us? We were loyal to you! Always!”