Her right hand was as ruined as ever, though. She tucked Benna’s sword under her arm and pulled the glove off. Even that was painful. The twisted thing trembled, weak and pale, the scar from Gobba’s wire lurid purple round the side. She winced as she forced the crooked fingers closed, little one still stubbornly straight. The thought that she’d be cursed with this hideous liability for the rest of her life brought on a sudden rush of fury.

“Bastard,” she hissed through gritted teeth, and dragged the glove back on. She remembered her father giving her a sword to hold for the first time, no more than eight years old. She remembered how heavy it had felt, how strange and unwieldy in her right hand. It hardly felt much better now, in her left. But she had no choice but to learn.

To start from nothing, if that was what it took.

She faced a rotten shutter, blade out straight towards it, wrist turned flat to the ground. She snapped out three jabs and the point tore three slats from the frame, one above the other. She snarled as she twisted her wrist and slashed downwards, splitting it clean in two, splinters flying.

Better. Better each day.

“Magnificent.” Morveer stood in a doorway, a few fresh scratches across one cheek. “There is not a shutter in Styria that will dare oppose us.” He ambled forwards into the courtyard, hands clasped behind him. “I daresay you were even more impressive when your right hand still functioned.”

“I’ll worry about that.”

“A great deal, I should think. Recovered from your… exertions of last night with our Northern acquaintance?”

“My bed, my business. And you? Recovered from your little drop through my window?”

“No more than a scratch or two.”

“Shame.” She slapped the Calvez back into its sheath. “Is it done?”

“It will be.”

“He’s dead?”

“He will be.”

“When?”

Morveer grinned up at the square of pale sky above them. “Patience is the first of virtues, General Murcatto. The bank has only just opened its doors, and the agent I used takes some time to work. Jobs done well are rarely done quickly.”

“But it will work?”

“Oh, absolutely so. It will be… masterful.”

“I want to see it.”

“Of course you do. Even in my hands the science of death is never utterly precise, but I would judge about an hour’s time to be the best moment. I strongly caution you to touch nothing within the bank, however.” He turned away, wagging one finger at her over his shoulder. “And take care you are not recognised. Our work together is only just commencing.”

The banking hall was busy. Dozens of clerks worked at heavy desks, bent over great ledgers, their pens scratching, rattling, scratching again. Guards stood bored about the walls, watching half-heartedly or not watching at all. Monza weaved between primped and pretty groups of wealthy men and women, slid between their oiled and bejewelled rows, Shivers shouldering his way through after. Merchants and shopkeepers and rich men’s wives, bodyguards and lackeys with strongboxes and money bags. As far as she could tell it was an ordinary day’s monumental profits for the Banking House of Valint and Balk.