Rats in a Sack

Cosca squinted as he stepped out onto the roof of the tower. Even the sunlight seemed set on tormenting him, but he supposed he richly deserved it. Visserine was spread out around him: jumbles of brick-and-timber houses, villas of cream-coloured stone, the green tops of leafing trees where the parks and broad avenues were laid out. Everywhere windows glinted, statues of coloured glass on the rooflines of the grandest buildings catching the morning sun and shining like jewels. Other towers were widely scattered, dozens of them, some far taller than the one he stood on, each casting its own long shadow across the sprawl.

Southwards the grey-blue sea, the smoke of industry still rising from the city's famous glass-working district on its island just offshore, the gliding specks of seabirds circling above it. To the east the Visser was a dark snake glimpsed through the buildings, four bridges linking the two halves of the city. Grand Duke Salier's palace squatted jealously on an island in its midst. A place where Cosca had spent many enjoyable evenings, an honoured guest of the great connoisseur himself. When he had still been loved, feared and admired. So long ago it seemed another man's life.

Monza stood motionless at the parapet, framed by the blue sky. The blade of her sword and her sinewy left arm made a line, perfectly straight, from shoulder to point. The steel shone bright, the ruby on her middle finger glittered bloody, her skin gleamed with sweat. Her vest stuck to her with it. She let the sword drop as he came closer, as he lifted the wine jug and took a long, cool swallow.

“I wondered how long it would take you.”

“Only water in it, more's the pity. Did you not witness my solemn oath never to touch wine again?”

She snorted. “That I've heard before, with small results.”

“I am in the slow and agonising process of mending my ways.”

“I've heard that too, with even smaller ones.”

Cosca sighed. “Whatever must a man do to be taken seriously?”

“Keep his word once in his life?”

“My fragile heart, so often broken in the past! Can it take such a buffeting?” He wedged one boot up on the battlements beside her. “I was born in Visserine, you know, no more than a few streets away. A happy childhood but a wild youth, full of ugly incidents. Including the one that obliged me to flee the city to seek my fortune as a paid soldier.”

“Your whole life has been full of ugly incidents.”

“True enough.” He had few pleasant memories, in fact. And most of those, Cosca realised as he peered sideways at Monza, had involved her. Most of the best moments of his life, and the very worst of all. He took a sharp breath and shielded his eyes with a hand, looking westwards, past the grey line of the city walls and out into the patchwork of fields beyond. “No sign of our friends from Talins yet?”

“Soon. General Ganmark isn't a man to turn up late to an engagement.” She paused for a moment, frowning, as always. “When are you going to say you told me?”

“Told you what?”

“About Orso.”

“You know what I told you.”

“Never trust your own employer.” A lesson he had learned at great cost from Duchess Sefeline of Ospria. “And now I'm the one paying your wages.”

Cosca made an effort at a grin, though it hurt his sore lips to do it. “But we are fittingly suspicious in all our dealings with each other.”

“Of course. I wouldn't trust you to carry my shit to the stream.”

“A shame. Your shit smells sweet as roses, I am sure.” He leaned back against the parapet and blinked into the sun. “Do you remember how we used to spar, in the mornings? Before you got too good.”

“Before you got too drunk.”

“Well, I could hardly spar afterwards, could I? There is a limit to how much a man should be willing to embarrass himself before breakfast. Is that a Calvez you have there?”

She lifted the sword, sun's gleam gliding along its edge. “I had it made for Benna.”

“For Benna? What the hell would he do with a Calvez? Use it as a spit and cook apples on it?”

“He didn't even do that much, as it goes.”

“I used to have one, you know. Damn good sword. Lost it in a card game. Drink?” He held out the jug.

She reached for it. “I could—”

“Hah!” He flung the water in her face and she yelped, stumbling back, drops flying. He ripped his sword from its sheath and as the jug shattered against the roof he was already swinging. She managed to parry the first cut, ducked desperately under the second, slipped, sprawled, rolled away as Cosca's blade squealed down the roofing lead where she had been a moment before. She came up in a crouch, sword at the ready.

“You're getting soft, Murcatto.” He chuckled as he paced out into the centre of the roof. “You'd never have fallen for the old water in the face ten years ago.”

“I didn't fall for it just now, idiot.” She wiped her brow slowly with her gloved hand, water dripping from the ends of her wet hair, never taking her eyes from his. “You got anything more than water in the face, or is that as far as your swordsmanship reaches these days?”

Not much further, if he was honest. “Why don't we find out?”

She sprang forwards and their blades feathered together, metal ringing and scraping. She had a long scar on her bare right shoulder, another curving round her forearm and into her black glove.

He waved his sword at it. “Fighting left-handed, eh? Hope you're not taking pity on an old man.”

“Pity? You know me better than that.” He flicked away a jab, but another came so quickly behind it he only just got out of the way, the blade punching a ragged hole in his shirt before it whipped back out.

He raised his brows. “Good thing I lost some weight during my last binge.”

“You could lose more, if you're asking me.” She circled him, the point of her tongue showing between her teeth.

“Trying to get the sun behind you?”

“You never should've taught me all those dirty tricks. Care to use your left, even things up a little?”

“Give up an advantage? You know me better than that!” He feinted right then went the other way and left her lunging at nothing. She was quick, but not near as quick as she had been with her right hand. He trod on her boot as she passed, made her stumble, the point of his sword left a neat scratch across the scar on her shoulder, and made a cross of it.

She peered down at the little wound, a bead of blood forming at its corner. “You old bastard.”

“A little something to remember me by.” And he twirled his sword around and slashed ostentatiously at the air. She lunged at him again and their swords rang together, cut, cut, jab and parry. All a touch clumsy, like sewing with gloves on. The time was they had given exhibitions, but it seemed time had done nothing for either of them. “One question …” he murmured, keeping his eyes on hers. “Why did you betray me?”

“I got tired of your fucking jokes.”

“I deserved to be betrayed, of course. Every mercenary ends up stabbed in the front or the back. But by you?” He jabbed at her, followed it with a cut that made her shuffle back, wincing. “After all I taught you? All I gave you? Safety, and money, and a place to belong? I treated you like my own daughter!”

“Like your mother, maybe. You've left out getting so drunk you'd shit in your clothes. I owed you, but there's a limit.” She circled him, looking for an opening, no more than the thickness of a finger between the points of their swords. “I might've followed you to hell, but I wasn't taking my brother there with me.”

“Why not? He'd have been right at home.”

“Fuck yourself!” She tricked him with a feint, switched angle and forced him to hop away with all the grace of a dying frog. He had forgotten how much work swordplay required. His lungs were burning already, shoulder, forearm, wrist, hand, all aching with a vengeance. “If it hadn't been me it would've been one of the other captains. Sesaria! Victus! Andiche!” She pushed home each hated name with a sharp cut, jarring the sword in his hand. “They were all falling over themselves to be rid of you at Afieri!”

“Can we not mention that damn place!” He parried her next effort and switched smartly to the attack with something close to his old vigour, driving her back towards the corner of the roof. He needed to bring this to a close before he died of exhaustion. He lunged again and caught her sword on his. He drove her off balance against the parapet, bent her back over the battlements, guards scraping together until their faces were no more than a few inches apart, the long drop to the street looming into view behind her head. He could feel her quick breath on his cheek. For the briefest moment he almost kissed her, and he almost pushed her off the roof. Perhaps it was only because he could not decide which to do that he did neither one.

“You were better with your right hand,” he hissed.

“You were better ten years ago.” She slid from under his sword and her gloved little finger came from nowhere and poked him in the eye.

“Eeeee!” he squealed, free hand clapped to his face. Her knee thudded almost silently into his fruits and sent a lance of pain through his belly as far as his neck. “Oooooof …” He tottered, blade clattering from his clutching fingers, bent over, unable to breathe. “A little something to remember me by.” And the glittering point of Monza's sword left him a burning scratch across his cheek.

“Gah!” He sank down slowly to the roofing lead. Back on his knees. There really is no place like home …

Through the savage pain he heard slow clapping coming from the stairway. “Vitari,” he croaked, squinting over at her as she ambled out into the sunlight. “Why is it … you always find me … at my lowest moments?”

“Because I enjoy them so.”

“You bitches don't know your luck … that you'll never feel the pain … of a blow to the fruits.”

“Try childbirth.”

“A charming invitation … if I were a little less bruised in the relevant areas, I would definitely take you up on it.”

But, as so often, his wit was wasted. Vitari's attention was already fixed far beyond the battlements, and Monza's too. Cosca dragged himself up, bow-legged. A long column of horsemen had crested a rise to the west of the city, framed between two nearby towers, a cloud of dust rising from the hooves of their horses and leaving a brown smear across the sky.

“They're here,” said Vitari. From somewhere behind them a bell began to ring, soon joined by others.

“And there,” said Monza. A second column had appeared. And a pillar of smoke, drifting up beyond a hill to the north.

Cosca stood as the sun slowly rose into the blue sky, no doubt administering a healthy dose of sunburn to his spreading bald patch, and watched Duke Orso's army steadily deploy in the fields outside the city. Regiment after regiment smoothly found their positions, well out of bowshot from the walls. A large detachment forded the river to the north and completed the encirclement. The horse screened the foot as they formed neat lines, then fell back behind them, no doubt to set about the business of ravaging anything carelessly left unravaged last season.

Tents began to appear, and carts too as the supplies came up, stippling the muddy land behind the lines. The tiny defenders at the walls could do nothing but watch as the Talinese dug in around them, as orderly as the workings of a gigantic clock. Not Cosca's style, of course, even when sober. More engineering than artistry, but one had to admire the discipline.

He spread his arms wide. “Welcome, one and all, to the siege of Visserine!”

The others had all gathered on the roof to watch Ganmark's grip on the city tighten. Monza stood with her left hand on her hip, gloved right slack on the pommel of her sword, black hair stirring around her scowl. Shivers was on Cosca's other side, staring balefully out from under his brows. Friendly sat near the door to the stairs, rolling his dice between his crossed legs. Day and Vitari muttered to each other further along the parapet. Morveer looked even more sour than usual, if that was possible.

“Can no one's sense of humour withstand so small a thing as a siege? Cheer up, my comrades!” Cosca gave Shivers a hearty clap on his broad back. “It isn't every day you get to see so large an army handled so well! We should all congratulate Monza's friend General Ganmark on his exceptional patience and discipline. Perhaps we should pen him a letter.”

“My dear General Ganmark.” Monza worked her mouth, curled her tongue and blew spit over the battlements. “Yours ever, Monzcarro Murcatto.”

“A simple missive,” observed Morveer, “but no doubt he will treasure it.”

“Lot o' soldiers down there,” Shivers grunted.

Friendly's voice drifted gently over. “Thirteen thousand four hundred, or thereabouts.”

“Mostly Talinese troops.” Cosca waved at them with the eyeglass. “Some regiments from Orso's older allies—flags of Etrisani on the right wing, there, near the water, and some others of Cesale in the centre. All regulars, though. No sign of our old comrades-in-arms, the Thousand Swords. Shame. It would be fine to renew some old friendships, wouldn't it, Monza? Sesaria, Victus, Andiche. Faithful Carpi too, of course.” Renew old friendships … and be revenged on old friends.

“The mercenaries will be away to the east.” Monza jerked her head across the river. “Holding off Duke Rogont and his Osprians.”

“Great fun for all involved, no doubt. But we, at least, are here.” Cosca gestured towards the crawling soldiers outside the city. “General Ganmark, one presumes, is there. The plan, to bring us all together in a happy reunion? We presume you have a plan?”

“Ganmark is a cultured man. He has a taste for art.”

“And?” demanded Morveer.

“No one has more art than Grand Duke Salier.”

“His collection is impressive.” Cosca had admired it on several occasions, or at any rate pretended to, while admiring his wine.

“The finest in Styria, they say.” Monza strode to the opposite parapet, looking towards Salier's palace on its island in the river. “When the city falls, Ganmark will make straight for the palace, eager to rescue all those priceless works from the chaos.”

“To steal them for himself,” threw in Vitari.

Monza's jaw was set even harder than usual. “Orso will want to be done with this siege quickly. Leave as much time as possible to put an end to Rogont. Finish the League of Eight for good and claim his crown before winter comes. That means breaches, and assaults, and bodies in the streets.”

“Marvellous!” Cosca clapped his hands. “Streets may boast noble trees, and stately buildings, but they never feel complete without a dusting of corpses, do they?”

“We take armour, uniforms, weapons from the dead. When the city falls, which will be soon, we disguise ourselves as Talinese. We find our way into the palace, and while Ganmark is going about the rescue of Salier's collection and his guard is down …”

“Kill the bastard?” offered Shivers.

There was a pause. “I believe I perceive the most minute of flaws in the scheme.” Morveer's whining words were like nails driven into the back of Cosca's skull. “Grand Duke Salier's palace will be among the best-guarded locations in Styria at the present moment, and we are not in it. Nor likely to receive an invitation.”

“On the contrary, I have one already.” Cosca was gratified to find them all staring at him. “Salier and I were quite close some years ago, when he employed me to settle his boundary issues with Puranti. We used to dine together once a week and he assured me I was welcome whenever I found myself in the city.”

The poisoner's face was a caricature of contempt. “Would this, by any chance, have been before you became a wine-ravaged sot?”

Cosca waved one careless hand while filing that slight carefully away with the rest. “During my long and most enjoyable transformation into one. Like a caterpillar turning into a beautiful butterfly. In any case, the invitation still stands.”

Vitari narrowed her eyes at him. “How the hell do you plan to make use of it?”

“I imagine I will address the guards at the palace gate, and say something along the lines of—'I am Nicomo Cosca, famed soldier of fortune, and I am here for dinner.' “

There was an uncomfortable silence, quite as if he had contributed a giant turd rather than a winning idea.

“Forgive me,” murmured Monza, “but I doubt your name opens doors the way it used to.”

“Latrine doors, maybe.” Morveer gave a sneering shake of his head. Day chuckled softly into the wind. Even Shivers had a dubious curl to his lip.

“Vitari and Morveer, then,” snapped Monza. “That's your job. Watch the palace. Find us a way in.” The two of them gave each other an unenthusiastic frown. “Cosca, you know something about uniforms.”

He sighed. “Few men more. Every employer wants to give you one of their own. I had one from the Aldermen of Westport cut from cloth of gold, about as comfortable as a lead pipe up the—”

“Something less eye-catching might be better suited to our purpose.”

Cosca drew himself up and snapped out a vibrating salute. “General Murcatto, I will do my straining utmost to obey your orders!”

“Don't strain. Man of your age, you might rupture something. Take Friendly with you, once the assaults begin.” The convict shrugged, and went back to his dice.

“We will most nobly strip the dead to their naked arses!” Cosca turned towards the stairs, but was brought up short by the sight in the bay. “Ah! Duke Orso's fleet has joined the fun.” He could just see ships moving on the horizon, white sails marked with the black cross of Talins.

“More guests for Duke Salier,” said Vitari.

“He always was a conscientious host, but I'm not sure even he can be prepared for so many visitors at once. The city is entirely cut off.” And Cosca grinned into the wind.

“A prison,” said Friendly, and almost with a smile of his own.

“We are helpless as rats in a sack!” snapped Morveer. “You speak quite as if that were a good thing.”

“Five times I have been under siege, and always quite relished the experience. It has a wonderful way of limiting the options. Of freeing the mind.” Cosca took a long breath in through his nose and blew it happily out. “When life is a cell, there is nothing more liberating than captivity.”