Morveer still stood by the window when she got there, his assistant cross-legged on the table, munching her way through half a loaf of bread. “There seems to be quite the ruckus down in the street!” The poisoner turned into the room, but his smile vanished as he saw Monza’s face. “What? He’s alive?”

“He’s dead. Dozens of them are.”

Morveer’s eyebrows went up by the slightest fraction. “An establishment of that nature, the books will be in constant movement around the building. I could not take the risk that Mauthis would end up working from another. What do I never take, Day?”

“Chances. Caution first, always.” Day tore off another mouthful of bread, and mumbled around it. “That’s why we poisoned them all. Every ledger in the place.”

“This isn’t what we agreed,” Monza growled.

“I rather think it is. Whatever it takes, you told me, no matter who gets killed along the way. Those are the only terms under which I work. Anything else allows for misunderstandings.” Morveer looked somewhat puzzled, somewhat amused. “I am well aware that some individuals are uncomfortable with wholesale murder, but I certainly never anticipated that you, Monzcarro Murcatto, the Serpent of Talins, the Butcher of Caprile, would be one. You need not worry about the money. Mauthis will cost you ten thousand, as we agreed. The rest are free of—”

“It’s not a question of money, fool!”

“Then what is the question? I undertook a piece of work, as commissioned by you, and was successful, so how can I be at fault? You say you never had in mind any such result, and did not undertake the work yourself, so how can you be at fault? The responsibility seems to drop between us, then, like a turd straight from a beggar’s arse and into an open sewer, to be lost from sight forever and cause nobody any further discomfort. An unfortunate misunderstanding, shall we say? An accident? As if a sudden wind blew up, and a great tree fell, and caught every little insect in that place and squashed… them… dead!”

“Squashed ’em,” chirped Day.

“If your conscience nags at you—”

Monza felt a stab of anger, gloved hand gripping the sword’s scabbard painfully hard, twisted bones clicking as they shifted. “Conscience is an excuse not to do what needs doing. This is about keeping control. We’ll stick to one dead man at a time from now on.”

“Will we indeed?”

She took a sudden stride into the room and the poisoner edged away, eyes flickering nervously down to her sword, then back. “Don’t test me. Not ever. One… at a time… I said.”

Morveer carefully cleared his throat. “You are the client, of course. We will proceed as you dictate. There really is no cause to get angry.”

“Oh, you’ll know if I get angry.”

He gave a pained sigh. “What is the tragedy of our profession, Day?”

“No appreciation.” His assistant popped the last bit of crust into her mouth.