“I too avoid it.”

“Ah.” Morveer released the vial and instead plucked a folded paper from his inside pocket quite as if that had been his intention from the first. He unfolded it and pretended to read while his eyes darted about the office. “I counted five thousand…” He took in the style of lock upon the door, the fashion of its construction, the frame within which it was set. “Two hundred…” The tiles from which the floor was made, the panels on the walls, the render of the ceiling, the leather of Mauthis’ chair, the coals on the unlit fire. “And twelve scales.” Nothing seemed promising.

Mauthis showed no emotion at the number. Fortunes and small change, all one. He opened the heavy cover of a huge ledger upon his desk. He licked one finger and flicked steadily through the pages, paper crackling. Morveer felt a warm satisfaction spread out from his stomach to every extremity at the sight, and it was only with an effort that he prevented himself from whooping with triumph. He settled for a prim smile. “Takings from my last trip to Sipani. Wine from Ospria is always a profitable venture, even in these uncertain times. Not everyone has our temperance, Master Mauthis, I am happy to say!”

“Of course.” The banker licked his finger once again as he turned the last few pages.

“Five thousand, two hundred and eleven,” said the clerk.

Mauthis’ eyes flickered up. “Trying to get away with something?”

“Me?” Morveer passed it off with a false chuckle. “Damn that man Charming, he can’t count for anything! I swear he has no feel for numbers whatsoever.”

The nib of Mauthis’ pen scratched across the ledger; the clerk hurried over and blotted the entry as his master neatly, precisely, emotionlessly prepared the receipt. The clerk carried it to Morveer and offered it to him along with the empty strongbox.

“A note for the full amount in the name of the Banking House of Valint and Balk,” said Mauthis. “Redeemable at any reputable mercantile institution in Styria.”

“Must I sign anything?” asked Morveer hopefully, his fingers closing around the pen in his inside pocket. It doubled as a highly effective blow-gun, the needle concealed within containing a lethal dose of—

“No.”

“Very well.” Morveer smiled as he folded the paper and slid it away, taking care that it did not catch on the deadly edge of his scalpel. “Better than gold, and a great deal lighter. For now, then, I take my leave. It has been a decided pleasure.” And he held out his hand again, poisoned ring glinting. No harm in making the effort.

Mauthis did not move from his chair. “Likewise.”

Evil Friends

It had been Benna’s favourite place in Westport. He’d dragged her there twice a week while they were in the city. A shrine of mirrors and cut glass, polished wood and glittering marble. A temple to the god of male grooming. The high priest—a small, lean barber in a heavily embroidered apron—stood sharply upright in the centre of the floor, chin pointed to the ceiling, as though he’d been expecting them that very moment to enter.