“I have been many things. A student. A messenger. A thief. A soldier in old wars. A servant of great powers. An actor in great events. Now?” Shenkt puffed out an unhappy breath as he gazed around at the mangled corpses hunched, sprawled, huddled across the room. “Now, it seems, I am a man who settles other people’s scores.”
The Fencing Master
M onza’s hands were shaking again, but that was no surprise. The danger, the fear, not knowing if she was going to live out the next moment. Her brother murdered, herself broken, everything she’d worked for gone. The pain, the withering need for husk, trusting no one, day after day, week after week. Then there was all the death she’d been the cause of, in Westport, in Sipani, gathering on her shoulders like a great weight of lead.
The last few months had been enough to make anyone’s hands shake. But maybe it was just watching Shivers have his eye burned out and thinking she’d be next.
She looked nervously towards the door between her room and his. He’d be awake soon. Screaming again, which was bad enough, or silent, which was worse. Kneeling there, looking at her with his one eye. That accusing look. She knew she should have been grateful, should have cared for him the way she used to for her brother. But a growing part of her just wanted to kick him and not stop. Maybe when Benna died everything warm, or decent, or human in her had been left rotting on the mountainside with his corpse.
She pulled her glove off and stared at the thing inside. At the thin pink scars where the shattered bones had been put back together. The deep red line where Gobba’s wire had cut into her. She curled the fingers into a fist, or something close, except the little one, still pointing off like a signpost to nowhere. It didn’t hurt as badly as it used to, but more than enough to bring a grimace to her face, and the pain cut through the fear, crushed the doubts.
“Revenge,” she whispered. Kill Ganmark, that was all that mattered now. His soft, sad face, his weak, watery eyes. Calmly stabbing Benna through the stomach. Rolling his corpse off the terrace. That’s that. She squeezed her fist tighter, bared her teeth at it.
“Revenge.” For Benna and for herself. She was the Butcher of Caprile, merciless, fearless. She was the Snake of Talins, deadly as the viper and no more regretful. Kill Ganmark, and then…
“Whoever’s next.” And her hand was steady.
Running footsteps slapped hard along the hallway outside and away. She heard someone shout in the distance, couldn’t make out the words, but couldn’t miss the edge of fear in the voice. She crossed to the window and pulled it open. Her room, or her cell, was high up on the north face of the palace. A stone bridge spanned the Visser upstream, tiny dots moving fast across it. Even from this distance she could tell people running for their lives.
A good general gets to know the smell of panic, and suddenly it was reeking. Orso’s men must have finally carried the walls. The sack of Visserine had begun. Ganmark would be on his way to the palace, even now, to take possession of Duke Salier’s renowned collection.
The door creaked open and Monza spun about. Captain Langrier stood in the doorway in a Talinese uniform, a bulging sack in one hand. She had a sword at one hip and a long dagger at the other. Monza had nothing of the kind, and she found herself acutely aware of the fact. She stood, hands by her sides, trying to look as if every muscle wasn’t ready to fight. And die, more than likely.
Langrier moved slowly into the room. “So you really are Murcatto, eh?”
“I’m Murcatto.”
“Sweet Pines? Musselia? The High Bank? You won all those battles?”
“That’s right.”
“You ordered all those folk killed at Caprile?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Duke Salier says he’s decided to do it your way.” Langrier dumped the sack on the floor and it sagged open. Metal gleamed inside. The Talinese armour Friendly had stolen out near the breach. “Best put this on. Don’t know how long we’ll have before your friend Ganmark gets here.”
Alive, then. For now. Monza dragged a lieutenant’s jacket from the sack and pulled it on over her shirt, started to button it up. Langrier watched her for a minute, then started talking.
“I just wanted to say… while there’s a chance. Well. That I always admired you, I guess.”
Monza stared at her. “What?”
“A woman. A soldier. Getting where you’ve been. Doing what you’ve done. You might’ve stood on the other side from us, but you always were something of a hero to-”
“You think I care a shit?” Monza didn’t know which sickened her more-being called a hero or who was saying it.
“Can’t blame me for not believing you. Woman with your reputation, thought you’d be harder in a fix like that-”
“You ever watched someone have their eye burned out of their head and thought you’d be next?”
Langrier worked her mouth. “Can’t say I’ve sat on that side of the issue.”
“You should try it, see how fucking hard you end up.” Monza pulled some stolen boots on, not so bad a fit.
