“Sir looks like a Styrian aristocrat.”

Monza snorted. “Less like a Northern beggar, anyway.”

“Maybe.” Shivers looked less than happy. “I daresay that’s a better-looking man there. A cleverer man.” He ran one hand through his short dark hair, frowning at his reflection. “Not sure if I trust that bastard, though.”

“And to finish…” The barber leaned forwards, a coloured crystal bottle in his hands, and squirted a fine mist of perfume over Shivers’ head.

The Northman was up like a cat off hot coals. “What the fuck?” he roared, big fists clenched, shoving the man away and making him totter across the room with a squeal.

Monza burst out laughing. “Looks of a Styrian nobleman, maybe.” She pulled out a couple more quarters and tucked them into the gaping barber’s apron pocket. “The manners might be a while coming, though.”

It was getting dark when they came back to the crumbling mansion, Monza with her hood drawn up and Shivers striding proudly along in his new coat. A cold rain flitted down into the ruined courtyard, a single lamp burned in a window on the first floor. She frowned towards it, and then at Shivers, found the grip of the knife in the back of her belt with her left hand. Best to be ready for every possibility. Up the creaking stairs a peeling door stood ajar, light spilling out across the boards. She stepped up and poked it open with her boot.

A pair of burning logs in the soot-blackened fireplace barely warmed the chamber on the other side. Friendly stood beside the far window, peering through the shutters towards the bank. Morveer had some sheets of paper spread out on a rickety old table, marking his place with an ink-spotted hand. Day sat on the tabletop with her legs crossed, peeling an orange with a dagger. “Definite improvement,” she grunted, giving Shivers a glance.

“Oh, I cannot but agree.” Morveer grinned. “A dirty, long-haired idiot left the building this morning. A clean, short-haired idiot has returned. It must be magic.”

Monza let go the grip of her knife while Shivers muttered angrily to himself in Northern. “Since you’re not crowing your own praises, I’m guessing the job’s not done.”

“Mauthis is a most cautious and well-protected man. The bank is far too heavily guarded during the day.”

“On his way to the bank, then.”

“He leaves by an armoured carriage with a dozen guards in attendance. To try and intercept them would be too great a risk.”

Shivers tossed another log on the fire and held his palms out towards it. “At his house?”

“Pah,” sneered Morveer. “We followed him there. He lives on a walled island in the bay where several of the city’s Aldermen have their estates. The public are not admitted. We have no method of gaining advance access to the building even if we can deduce which one is his. How many guards, servants, family members would be in attendance? All unknown. I flatly refuse to attempt a job of this difficulty on conjecture. What do I never take, Day?”