“Talins?” Vitari glanced around the room. “Though I hear the palace at Fontezarmo did suffer some light looting recently. And Borletta.”

“Borletta?” It wasn’t much more than a year since Monza had told Orso, in this very hall, how she’d thoroughly looted that very city. Not to mention spiked its ruler’s head above the gates.

“Duke Cantain’s young niece foiled a plot by the nobles of the city to depose her. Apparently, she made such a fine speech they all threw aside their swords, fell to their knees and swore undying fealty to her on the spot. Or that’s the story they’re telling, at any rate.”

“Making armed men fall to their knees is a neat trick, however she managed it.” Monza remembered how Rogont won his great victory. Blades can kill men, but only words can move them, and good neighbours are the surest shelter in a storm. “Do we have such a thing as an ambassador?”

Rubine looked around the table. “I daresay one could be produced.”

“Produce one and send him to Borletta, with a suitable gift for the persuasive duchess and… offers of our sisterly affection.”

“Sisterly… affection?” Vitari looked like she’d found a turd in her bed. “I didn’t think that was your style.”

“My style is whatever works. I hear good neighbours are the surest shelter in a storm.”

“Them and good swords.”

“Good swords go without saying.”

Rubine was looking deeply apologetic. “Your Excellency, your reputation is not… all it might be.”

“It never has been.”

“But you are widely blamed for the death of King Rogont, Chancellor Sotorius and their comrades in the League of Nine. Your lone survival was…”

Vitari smirked at her. “Damnably suspicious.”

“In Talins that only makes you better loved, of course. But elsewhere… if Styria were not so deeply divided, it would undoubtedly be united against you.”

Grulo frowned across at Scavier. “We need someone to blame.”

“Let’s put the blame where it belongs,” said Monza, “this once. Castor Morveer poisoned the crown, on Orso’s instructions, no doubt. Let it be known. As widely as possible.”

“But, your Excellency…” Rubine had moved from apologetic to abject. “No one knows the name. For great crimes, people must blame great figures.”

Monza’s eyes rolled up. Duke Orso smirked triumphantly at her from the painting of a battle he was never at. She found herself smirking back. Fine lies beat tedious truths every time.

“Inflate him, then. Castor Morveer, death without a face, most infamous of Master Poisoners. The greatest and most subtle murderer in history. A poisoner-poet. A man who could slip into the best-guarded building in Styria, murder its monarch and four of its greatest leaders and away unnoticed like a night breeze. Who is safe from the very King of Poisons? Why, I was lucky to escape with my life.”

“Poor innocent that you are.” Vitari slowly shook her head. “Rubs me wrong to heap fame on that slime of a man.”

“I daresay you live with worse.”