“Good sir! I find myself temporarily without funds, and wonder whether you would be willing to advance me a small loan until—”

“Away and piss, beggar.” The man shoved past, barging him against the wall.

Cosca’s skin flushed with greasy outrage. “You address none other than Nicomo Cosca, famed soldier of fortune!” The effect was somewhat spoiled by the brittle cracking of his ravaged voice. “Captain general of the Thousand Swords! Ex-captain general, that is.” The man made an obscene gesture as he disappeared into the fog. “I dined… at the beds… of dukes!” Cosca collapsed into a fit of hacking coughs and was obliged to bend over, shaking hands on his shaking knees, aching ribcage going like a creaky bellows.

Such was the life of the drinker. A quarter on your arse, a quarter on your face, a quarter on your knees and the rest of your time bent over. He finally hawked up a great lump of phlegm, and with one last cough blew it spinning from his sore tongue. Would this be his legacy? Spit in a hundred thousand gutters? His name a byword for petty betrayal, avarice and waste? He straightened with a groan of the purest despair, staring up into nothingness, even the stars denied him by Sipani’s all-cloaking fog.

“One last chance. That’s all I’m asking.” He had lost count of the number of last chances he had wasted. “Just one more. God!” He had never believed in God for an instant. “Fates!” He had never believed in Fates either. “Anyone!” He had never believed in anything much beyond the next drink. “Just one… more… chance.”

“Alright. One more.”

Cosca blinked. “God? Is that… you?”

Someone chuckled. A woman’s voice, and a sharp, mocking, most ungodlike sort of a chuckle. “You can kneel if you like, Cosca.”

He squinted into the sliding mist, pickled brains spurred into something approaching activity. Someone knowing his name was unlikely to be a good thing. His enemies far outnumbered his friends, and his creditors far outnumbered both. He fished drunkenly for the hilt of his gilded sword, then realised he had pawned it months ago in Ospria and bought a cheap one. He fished drunkenly for the hilt of that instead, then realised he had pawned that one when he first reached Sipani. He let his shaky hand drop. Not much lost. He doubted he could have swung a blade even if he’d had one.

“Who the bloody hell’s out there? If I owe you money, make ready”—his stomach lurched and he gave vent to a long, acrid burp—“to die?”

A dark shape rose suddenly from the murk at his side and he spun, tripped over his own feet and went sprawling, head cracking against the wall and sending a blinding flash across his vision.

“So you’re alive, still. You are alive, aren’t you?” A long, lean woman, a sharp face mostly in shadow, spiky hair tinted orange. His mind fumbled sluggishly to recognition.

“Shylo Vitari, well I never.” Not an enemy, perhaps, but certainly not a friend. He propped himself up on one elbow, but from the way the street was spinning, decided that was far enough. “Don’t suppose you might consent… to buy a man a drink, might you?”