“Eh?” Hadn’t been expecting that. Left him disappointed, almost. “What, then?”

“You can go.”

He blinked. “I can what?”

“Go. You’re free.”

“Didn’t think you still cared.”

“Who says I ever did? This is for me, not you. I’ve had enough vengeance.”

Shivers snorted. “Well, who’d have fucking thought it? The Butcher of Caprile. The Snake of Talins. The good woman, all along. I thought you didn’t have much use for the right thing. I thought mercy and cowardice were the same.”

“Mark me down a coward, then. That I can live with. Just don’t ever come back here. My cowardice has limits.” She twisted the ring off her finger. The one with the big, blood-red ruby in it, and tossed it in the dirty straw at his feet. “Take it.”

“Alright.” He bent down and dug it out of the muck, wiped it on his shirt. “I ain’t proud.” Monza turned and walked away, towards the stairway, towards the lamplight spilling from it. “So that’s how this ends, is it?” he called after her. “That’s the ending?”

“You think you deserve something better?” And she was gone.

He slid the ring onto his little finger and watched it sparkle. “Something worse.”

“Move, then, bastard,” snarled one of the guards, waving a drawn sword.

Shivers grinned back. “Oh, I’m gone, don’t you worry on that score. I’ve had my fill of Styria.”

He smiled as he stepped out of the darkness of the tunnel and onto the bridge that led away from Fontezarmo. He scratched at his itching face, took in a long breath of cold, free air. All things considered, and well against the run of luck, he reckoned he’d come out alright. Might be he’d lost an eye down here in Styria. Might be he was leaving no richer than when he’d stepped off the boat. But he was a better man, of that he’d no doubt. A wiser man. Used to be he was his own worst enemy. Now he was everyone else’s.

He was looking forward to getting back to the North, finding some work that suited him. Maybe he’d make a stop in Uffrith, pay his old friend Vossula a little visit. He set off down the mountain, away from the fortress, boots crunching in the grey dust.

Behind him, the sunrise was the colour of bad blood.

Acknowledgments

As always, four people without whom:

Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.

Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.

Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.

Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.

Then, my heartfelt thanks:

To all the lovely and talented folks at my UK Publisher, Gollancz, and their parent Orion, particularly Simon Spanton, Jo Fletcher, Jon Weir, Mark Stay and Jon Wood. Then, of course, all those who’ve helped make, publish, publicise, translate and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world.

To the artists responsible for somehow making me look classy: Didier Graffet, Dave Senior and Laura Brett.