Day shrugged. “Accidents happen all the time in our line of work. Especially to the old. It’s a young person’s trade, really.” She sauntered out into the corridor, passed Vitari stalking back the other way. The look of glee was long gone from her sharp face, and the swagger with it. She lifted one black boot and shoved the chair angrily away into one corner.

“There’s our way in, then,” she said.

“Seems so.”

“Just what I promised you.”

“Just what you promised.”

“Ario and Foscar, both together, and a way to get to them.”

“A good day’s work.”

They looked at each other, and Vitari ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth as if it tasted bitter. “Well.” She shrugged her bony shoulders. “It’s a living.”

The Life of the Drinker

A drink, a drink, a drink. Where can a man find a drink?”

Nicomo Cosca, famed soldier of fortune, tottered against the wall of the alley, rooting through his purse yet again with quivering fingers. There was still nothing in it but a tuft of grey fluff. He dug it out, blew it from his fingertips and watched it flutter gently down. All his fortune.

“Bastard purse!” He flung it in the gutter in a feeble rage. Then he thought better of it and had to stoop to pick it up, groaning like an old man. He was an old man. A lost man. A dead man, give or take a final rattle of breath. He sank slowly to his knees, gazing at his broken reflection in the black water gathered between the cobblestones.

He would have given all he owned for the slightest taste of liquor. He owned nothing, it had to be said. But his body was his, still. His hands, which had raised up princes to the heights of power and flung them down again. His eyes, which had surveyed the turning points of history. His lips, which had softly kissed the most celebrated beauties of the age. His itching cock, his aching guts, his rotting neck, he would happily have sold it all for a single measure of grape spirit. But it was hard to see where he would find a buyer.

“I have become myself… an empty purse.” He raised his leaden arms imploringly and roared into the murky night. “Someone give me a fucking drink!”

“Stop your mouth, arsehole!” a rough voice called back, and then, with the clatter of shutters closing, the alley plunged into deeper gloom.

He had dined at the tables of dukes. He had sported in the beds of countesses. Cities had trembled at the name of Cosca.

“How did it ever come… to this?” He clambered up, swallowing the urge to vomit. He smoothed his hair back from his throbbing temples, fumbled with the limp ends of his moustaches. He made for the lane with something approaching his famous swagger of old. Out between the ghostly buildings and into a patch of lamplight in the mist, moist night breeze tickling at his sore face. Footsteps approached and Cosca lurched round, blinking.