Friendly dragged Gobba to the anvil—a mass of scarred black iron bolted down in the centre of the floor. Shivers had a length of chain, a manacle on each end, looping it round and round the base. All the while he had this fixed frown. As if he’d got some morals, and they were stinging.

Nice things, morals, but prone to chafe at times like this.

The two men worked well together for a beggar and a convict. No time or movement wasted. No sign of nerves, given they were going about a murder. But then Monza had always had a knack for picking the right men for a job. Friendly snapped the manacles shut on the bodyguard’s thick wrists. Shivers reached out and turned the knob on the lamp, the flame fluttering up behind the glass, light spilling out around the grubby forge.

“Wake him up.”

Friendly flung a bucket of water in Gobba’s face. He coughed, dragged in a breath, shook his head, drops flicking from his hair. He tried to stand and the chain rattled, snatching him back down. He glared around, little eyes hard.

“You stupid bastards! You’re dead men, the pair of you! Dead! Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know who I work for?”

“I know.” Monza did her best to walk smoothly, the way she used to, but couldn’t quite manage it. She limped into the light, pushing back her hood.

Gobba’s fat face crinkled up. “No. Can’t be.” His eyes went wide. Then wider still. Shock, then fear, then horror. He lurched back, chains clinking. “No!”

“Yes.” And she smiled, in spite of the pain. “How fucked are you? You’ve put weight on, Gobba. More than I’ve lost, even. Funny, how things go. Is that my stone you’ve got there?”

He had the ruby on his little finger, red glimmer on black iron. Friendly reached down, twisted it off and tossed it over to her. She snatched it out of the air with her left hand. Benna’s last gift. The one they’d smiled at together as they rode up the mountain to see Duke Orso. The thick band was scratched, bent a little, but the stone still sparkled bloodily as ever, the colour of a slit throat.

“Somewhat damaged when you tried to kill me, eh, Gobba? But weren’t we all?” It took her a while to fumble it onto her left middle finger, but in the end she twisted it past the knuckle. “Fits this hand just as well. Piece of luck, that.”

“Look! We can make a deal!” There was sweat beading Gobba’s face now. “We can work something out!”

“I already did. Don’t have a mountain to hand, I’m afraid.” She slid the hammer from the shelf—a short-hafted lump hammer with a block of heavy steel for a head—and felt her knuckles shift as she closed her gloved hand tight around it. “So I’m going to break you apart with this, instead. Hold him, would you?” Friendly folded Gobba’s right arm and forced it onto the anvil, clawing fingers spread out pale on the dark metal. “You should’ve made sure of me.”