“They’re the worst people I ever saw.”

“Of course they are. We hanged all the best ones. The ones who might have helped, might have compromised, might have built bridges, we left dangling over the road to Valbeck. Of course they are cruel, and greedy, and brutal. Those are the lessons we taught. That was the example we set.”

“I never met them!” the Styrian woman burbled as the prisoners were manhandled up the aisle. “I’m innocent!” But it was far too late for that. It was too late the moment they were put in the dock. There was only one real conspiracy here. To find people to blame, and they were all complicit.

Judge tossed down her hammer and sat back, picking her teeth. “What’s for lunch?” she asked.

Worse Than Murder

“Damn,” whispered Tallow, steam puffing about his face, “it’s cold.” And he wrapped his thin arms tight around his thin ribs, and worked his chin into his scarf.

Vick’s brother used to do the selfsame thing, in the camps. Bundled up in every scrap of cloth they had, huddled together for warmth under a blanket she’d got a bloody nose stealing. Gave her a sudden urge to hug Tallow, rub his back, clamp her gloved hands over the red tips of his ears.

But Sibalt was the last man she hugged, and he ended up slitting his own throat. So she hawked up cold snot and sent it spinning into the frozen dirt beside the cart instead.

“Why do you never have enough clothes?”

“No one’s got enough clothes now.”

“Scarf on a Constable. Not exactly fearsome, is it?”

“More fearsome than froze to death, I daresay.”

Vick conceded that with a smoky grunt. He’d hardly be the first one froze to death, they were finding them every morning. In alleyways. In doorways. In cellars. Frost in their eyebrows. Ground was frozen too hard to bury the poor bastards.

“Don’t you ever get cold?” he asked.

Vick got cold. Her throat had been sore for days, her nostrils raw from the running and wiping, running and wiping. But she knew better than to let the pain show. Letting it show is the same as asking for more. “Got colder than this, in the camps. Look on the sunny side.” And she snorted up more snot. “If it was warmer we’d have a plague.”

“Sounds like you got the plague anyway,” muttered Tallow.

“If you’re concerned about infection you could always join the Burners.” And she nodded down the street towards them.

They’d built a great bonfire. Images of royalty. Symbols of the past. Portraits of King Orso, King Jezal and the many crowned arseholes that had preceded them. Furniture carved with the blazing sun of the Union. Curtains embroidered with the devices of great families. Cutlery stamped with patriotic mottos. Flags. Uniforms. Wigs. Fans. Anything that could be considered aristocratic. A Burner stomped from a house and flung a full set of crockery splintering into the blaze. Folk gathered dangerously close, eager hands out to the flames, light playing on pinched-in faces.