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“Oh, nor me,” Cosca threw in. “Though a grave’s a grave, spit or no. You are quite sure he’ll come?”

“He’ll come.”

“And when he does?”

“Kill,” grunted Shivers. Someone had given him a shield and a heavy studded axe with a long pick on the reverse. Now he took a brutal-looking practice swipe with it.

Monza’s neck shifted as she swallowed. “I guess we just wait and see.”

“Ah, wait and see.” Cosca beamed. “My kind of plan.”

– 

A crash came from somewhere in the palace, distant shouting, maybe even the faint clash and clatter of steel. Monza worked her left hand nervously around the hilt of the Calvez, hanging drawn beside her leg.

“Did you hear that?” Salier’s soft face was pale as butter beside her. His guards, scattered about the garden fingering their borrowed weapons, looked hardly more enthusiastic. But that was the thing about facing death, as Benna had often pointed out. The closer it gets, the worse an idea it seems. Shivers didn’t look like he had any doubts. Hot iron had burned them out of him, maybe. Cosca neither, his happy grin widening with each moment. Friendly sat cross-legged, rolling his dice across the cobbles.

He looked up at her, face blank as ever. “Five and four.”

“That a good thing?”

He shrugged. “It’s nine.” Monza raised her brows. A strange group she’d gathered, surely, but when you have a half-mad plan you need men at least half-mad to see it through.

Sane ones might be tempted to look for a better idea.

Another crash, and a thin scream, closer this time. Ganmark’s soldiers, working their way through the palace towards the garden at its centre. Friendly threw his dice once more, then gathered them up and stood, sword in hand. Monza tried to stay still, eyes fixed on the open doorway ahead, the hall lined with paintings beyond it, beyond that the archway that led into the rest of the palace. The only way in.

A helmeted head peered round the side of the arch. An armoured body followed. A Talinese sergeant, sword and shield raised and ready. Monza watched him creep carefully under the portcullis, across the marble tiles. He stepped cautiously out into the sunlight, frowning about at them.

“Sergeant,” said Cosca brightly.

“Captain.” The man straightened up, letting his sword point drop. More men followed him. Well-armed Talinese soldiers, watchful and bearded veterans tramping into the gallery with weapons at the ready. They looked surprised, at first, to see their own side already in the garden, but not unhappy. “That him?” asked the sergeant, pointing to Salier.

“This is him,” said Cosca, grinning back.

“Well, well. Fat fucker, ain’t he?”

“That he is.”

More soldiers were coming through the entrance now, and behind them a knot of staff officers in pristine uniforms, with fine swords but no armour. Striding at their head with an air of unchallengeable authority came a man with a soft face and sad, watery eyes.

Ganmark.

Monza might have felt some grim satisfaction that she’d predicted his actions so easily, but the swell of hatred at the sight of him crowded it away. He had a long sword at his left hip, a shorter one at his right. Long and short steels, in the Union style.

“Secure the gallery!” he called in his clipped accent as he marched out into the garden. “Above all, ensure no harm comes to the paintings!”

“Yes, sir!” Boots clattered as men moved to follow his orders. Lots of men. Monza watched them, jaw set aching hard. Too many, maybe, but there was no use weeping about it now. Killing Ganmark was all that mattered.

“General!” Cosca snapped out a vibrating salute. “We have Duke Salier.”

“So I see. Well done, Captain, you were quick off the mark, and shall be rewarded. Very quick.” He gave a mocking bow. “Your Excellency, an honour. Grand Duke Orso sends his brotherly greetings.”

“Shit on his greetings,” barked Salier.

“And his regrets that he could not be here in person to witness your utter defeat.”

“If he was here, I’d shit on him too.”

“Doubtless. He was alone?”

Cosca nodded. “Just waiting here, sir, looking at this.” And he jerked his head towards the great statue in the centre of the garden.

“Bonatine’s Warrior.” Ganmark paced slowly towards it, smiling up at the looming marble image of Stolicus. “Even more beautiful in person than by report. It shall look very well in the gardens of Fontezarmo.” He was no more than five paces away. Monza tried to keep her breath slow, but her heart was hammering. “I must congratulate you on your wonderful collection, your Excellency.”

“I shit on your congratulations,” sneered Salier.

“You shit on a great many things, it seems. But then a person of your size no doubt produces a vast quantity of the stuff. Bring the fat man closer.”