“Even so, you’ll forgive us if we pass.”

Day reached for a cake. “Can I—”

“Gorge yourself.” Then to Murcatto. “You did not come here for my wine, then.”

“No. I have work for you.”

Morveer examined his cuticles. “The deaths of Grand Duke Orso and sundry others, I presume.” She sat in silence, but it suited him to speak as though she had demanded an explanation. “It scarcely requires a towering intellect to make the deduction. Orso declares you and your brother killed by agents of the League of Eight. Then I hear from your friend and mine Sajaam that you are less deceased than advertised. Since there has been no tearful reunion with Orso, no happy declaration of your miraculous survival, we can assume the Osprian assassins were in fact… a fantasy. The Duke of Talins is a man of notoriously jealous temper, and your many victories made you too popular for your master’s taste. Do I come close to the mark?”

“Close enough.”

“My heartfelt condolences, then. Your brother, it would appear, could not be with us, and I understood you were inseparable.” Her cold blue eyes had turned positively icy now. The Northman loomed grim and silent beside her. Morveer carefully cleared his throat. Blades might be unsophisticated tools, but a sword through the guts killed clever men every bit as thoroughly as stupid ones. “You understand that I am the very best at my trade.”

“A fact,” said Day, detaching herself from her sweetmeat for a moment. “An unchallengeable fact.”

“The many persons of quality upon whom I have utilised my skills would so testify, were they able, but, of course, they are not.”

Day sadly shook her head. “Not a one.”

“Your point?” asked Murcatto.

“The best costs money. More money than you, having lost your employer, can, perhaps, afford.”

“You’ve heard of Somenu Hermon?”

“The name is familiar.”

“Not to me,” said Day.

Morveer took it upon himself to explain. “Hermon was a destitute Kantic immigrant who rose to become, supposedly, the richest merchant in Musselia. The luxury of his lifestyle was notorious, his largesse legendary.”

“And?”

“Alas, he was in the city when the Thousand Swords, in the pay of Grand Duke Orso, captured Musselia by stealth. Loss of life was kept to a minimum, but the city was plundered, and Hermon never heard from again. Nor was his money. The assumption was that this merchant, as merchants often do, greatly exaggerated his wealth, and beyond his gaudy and glorious accoutrements possessed… precisely… nothing.” Morveer took a slow sip of wine, peering at Murcatto over the rim of his glass. “But others would know far better than I. The commanders of that particular campaign were… what were the names now? A brother and sister… I believe?”

She stared straight back at him, eyes undeviating. “Hermon was far wealthier than he pretended to be.”

“Wealthier?” Morveer wriggled in his chair. “Wealthier? Oh my! The advantage to Murcatto! See how I squirm at the mention of so infinite a sum of bountiful gold! Enough to pay my meagre fees two dozen times and more, I do not doubt! Why… my overpowering greed has left me quite…” He lifted his open hand and slapped it down against the table with a bang. “Paralysed.”