“They don’t call it Safety because you’re safe there. They call it Safety because everyone else is safe from you. They count out the days, months, years they’ll keep you. Then they lock you in, deep down, where the light doesn’t go, until the days, months, years have all rubbed past, and the numbers are all counted down to nothing. Then you say thank you, and they let you free.”

Sounded like a barbaric way of doing things to Shivers. “You do a crime in the North, you pay a gild on it, make it right. That, or if the chieftain decides, they hang you. Maybe put the bloody cross in you, if you’ve done murders. Lock a man in a hole? That’s a crime itself.”

Friendly shrugged. “They have rules there that make sense. There’s a proper time for each thing. A proper number on the great clock. Not like out here.”

“Aye. Right. Numbers, and that.” Shivers wished he’d never asked.

Friendly hardly seemed to hear him. “Out here the sky is too high, and every man does what he pleases when he likes, and there are no right numbers for anything.” He was frowning off towards Westport, still just a sweep of hazy buildings round the cold bay. “Fucking chaos.”

They got to the city walls about midday, and there was already a long line of folk waiting to get in. Soldiers stood about the gate, asking questions, going through a pack or a chest, poking half-hearted at a cart with their spear-butts.

“The Aldermen have been nervous since Borletta fell,” said Morveer from his seat. “They are checking everyone who enters. I will do the talking.” Shivers was happy enough to let him, since the prick loved the sound of his own voice so much.

“Your name?” asked the guard, eyes infinitely bored.

“Reevrom,” said the poisoner, with a massive grin. “A humble merchant from Puranti. And these are my associates—”

“Your business in Westport?”

“Murder.” An uncomfortable silence. “I hope to make a veritable killing on the sale of Osprian wines! Yes, indeed, I hope to make a killing in your city.” Morveer chuckled at his own joke and Day tittered away beside him.

“This one doesn’t look like the kind we need.” Another guard was frowning up at Shivers.

Morveer kept chuckling. “Oh, no need to worry on his account. The man is practically a retard. Intellect of a child. Still, he is good for shifting a barrel or two. I keep him on out of sentiment as much as anything. What am I, Day?”

“Sentimental,” said the girl.

“I have too much heart. Always have had. My mother died when I was very young, you see, a wonderful woman—”

“Get on with it!” someone called from behind them.

Morveer took hold of the canvas sheet covering the back of the wagon. “Do you want to check—”

“Do I look like I want to, with half of Styria to get through my bloody gate? On.” The guard waved a tired hand. “Move on.”