“Loyal?” Orso gave a disbelieving gasp of his own. “Crow your victory if you must, but don’t crow your innocence to me! We both know better!”

All three flatbows were loaded and levelled now. “We were loyal!” she screamed again, voice cracking.

“Can you deny it? That Benna met with malcontents, revolutionaries, traitors among my ungrateful subjects? That he promised them weapons? That he promised you would lead them to glory? Claim my place? Usurp me! Did you think I would not learn of it? Did you think I would stand idly by?”

“What the… you fucking liar!”

“Still you deny it? I would not believe it myself when they told me! My Monza? Closer to me than my own children? My Monza, betray me? With my own eyes I saw him! With my own eyes!” The echoes of his voice slowly faded, and left the hall almost silent. Only the gentle clanking of the four armoured men as they edged ever so slowly towards her. She could only stare, the realisation creeping slowly through her.

We could have our own city, Benna had said. You could be the Duchess Monzcarro of… wherever. Of Talins, had been his thought. We deserve to be remembered. He’d planned it himself, alone, and given her no choice. Just as he had when he betrayed Cosca. It’s better this way. Just as he had when he took Hermon’s gold. This is for us.

He’d always been the one with the big plans.

“Benna,” she mouthed. “You fool.”

“You didn’t know,” said Orso quietly. “You didn’t know, and now we are come to this. Your brother doomed himself, and both of us, and half of Styria besides.” A sad little chuckle bubbled out of him. “Just when I think I know it all, life always finds a way to surprise me. You’re late, Shenkt.” His eyes flicked to the side. “Kill her.”

Monza felt a shadow fall across her, lurched around. A man had stolen up while they spoke, his soft work boots making not the slightest sound. Now he stood over her, close enough to touch. He held out his hand. There was a ring in his palm. Benna’s ruby ring.

“I believe this is yours,” he said.

A pale, lean face. Not old, but deeply lined, with harsh cheekbones and eyes hungry bright in bruised sockets. Monza’s eyes went wide, the chill shock of recognition washing over her like ice water.

“Kill her!” shouted Orso.

The newcomer smiled, but it was like a skull’s smile, never touching his eyes. “Kill her? After all the effort I went to keeping her alive?”

The colour had drained from her face. Indeed she looked almost as pale as she had done when he first found her, broken amongst the rubbish on the slopes of Fontezarmo. Or when she’d first woken after he pulled the stitches, and stared down in horror at her own scarred body.

“Kill her?” he asked again. “After I carried her from the mountain? After I mended her bones and stitched her back together? After I protected her from your hirelings in Puranti?”