Instead of cringing back she came forwards, pressing against him almost, eyes seeming big as dinner plates. "Me? You've made no sacrifices for me! Am I the one who's cut you off? Am I the one who sets you at nothing?"
Shivers' face was on fire. The blood was battering at his skull, so hard it felt like it might pop his eye right out. Except it was burned out already. He gave a strangled sort of a yelp, throat closed up with fury. He staggered back, since it was that or throttle her, lurched straight into a servant, knocking his silver tray from his hands, glasses falling, bottle shattering, wine spraying.
"Sir, I most humbly—"
Shivers' left fist thudded into his ribs and twisted him sideways, right crunched into the man's face before he could fall. He bounced off the wall and sprawled in the wreckage of his bottles. There was blood on Shivers' fist. Blood, and a white splinter between his fingers. A piece of tooth. What he wanted, more'n anything, was to kneel over this bastard, take his head in his hands and smash it against the beautiful carvings on the wall until his brains came out. He almost did it.
But instead he made himself turn. Made himself turn and stumble away.
Time crawled.
Monza lay on her side, back to Shivers, at the very edge of the bed. Keeping as much space between them as she possibly could without rolling onto the floor. The first traces of dawn were creeping from between the curtains now, turning the room dirty grey. The wine was wearing through and leaving her more nauseous, weary, hopeless than ever. Like a wave washing up on a dirty beach that you hope will wash it clean, but only sucks back out and leaves a mass of dead fish behind it.
She tried to think what Benna would have said. What he'd have done, to make her feel better. But she couldn't remember what his voice had sounded like anymore. He was leaking away, and taking the best of her with him. She thought of him a boy, long ago, small and sickly and helpless. Needing her to take care of him. She thought of him a man, laughing, riding up the mountain to Fontezarmo. Still needing her to take care of him. She knew what colour his eyes had been. She knew there had been creases at their corners, from smiling often. But she couldn't see his smile.
Instead the faces that came to her in all their bloodied detail were the five men she'd killed. Gobba, fumbling at Friendly's garrotte with his great bloated, ruined hands. Mauthis, flapping around on his back like a puppet, gurgling pink foam. Ario, hand to his neck as black blood spurted from him. Ganmark, grinning up at her, stuck through the back with Stolicus' outsize sword. Faithful, drowned and dripping, dangling from his waterwheel, no worse than her.
The faces of the five men she'd killed, and of the two she hadn't. Eager little Foscar, barely even a man himself. And Orso, of course. Grand Duke Orso, who'd loved her like a daughter.
Monza, Monza, what would I do without you…
She tore the blankets back and swung her sweaty legs from the bed, dragged her trousers on, shivering though it was too hot, head pounding with worn-out wine.
"What you doing?" came Shivers' croaky voice.
"Need a smoke." Her fingers were trembling so badly she could hardly turn the lamp up.
"Maybe you should be smoking less, think of that?"
"Thought of it." She fumbled with the lump of husk, wincing as she moved her ruined fingers. "Decided against."
"It's the middle of the night."
"Go to sleep, then."
"Shitty fucking habit." He was sitting up on the side of the bed, broad back to her, head turned so he was frowning out of the corner of his one good eye.
"You're right. Maybe I should take up knocking servants' teeth out instead." She picked up her knife and started hacking husk into the bowl of the pipe, scattering dust. "Rogont wasn't much impressed, I can tell you that."
"Wasn't long ago you weren't much impressed with him, as I recall. Seems your feelings about folk change with the wind, though, don't it?"
Her head was splitting. She'd no wish to talk to him, let alone argue. But it's at times like those people bite each other hardest. "What's eating at you?" she snapped, knowing full well already and not wanting to hear about it either.
"What d'you think?"
"You know what, I've my own problems."
"You leaving me, is what!"
She'd have jumped at the chance. "Leaving you?"
"Tonight! Down with the shit while you sat up there lording it with the Duke of Delay!"
"You think I was in charge of the fucking seating?" she sneered at him. "He put me there to make him look good, is all."
There was a pause. He turned his head away from her, shoulders hunching. "Well. I guess looking good ain't something I can help with these days."
She twitched—awkward, annoyed. "Rogont can help me. That's all. Foscar's out there, with Orso's army. Foscar's out there…" And he had to die, whatever the costs.
"Vengeance, eh?"
"They killed my brother. I shouldn't have to explain it to you. You know how I feel."
"No. I don't."
She frowned. "What about your brother? Thought you said the Bloody-Nine killed him? I thought—"
"I hated my fucking brother. Folk called him Skarling reborn, but the man was a bastard. He'd show me how to climb trees, and fish, nick me under the chin and laugh when our father was there. When he was gone, he used to kick me 'til I couldn't breathe. He said I'd killed our mother. All I did was be born." His voice was hollow, no anger left in it. "When I heard he was dead, I wanted to laugh, but I cried instead because everyone else was. I swore vengeance on his killer and all the rest 'cause, well, there's a form to be followed, ain't there? Wouldn't want to fall short. But when I heard the Bloody-Nine nailed my bastard of a brother's head up, I didn't know whether I hated the man for doing it, or hated that he'd robbed me o' the chance, or wanted to kiss him for the favour like you'd kiss… a brother, I guess…"
For a moment she was about to get up, go to him, put her hand on his shoulder. Then his one eye moved towards her, cold and narrow. "But you'd know all about that, I reckon. Kissing your brother."
The blood pounded suddenly behind her eyes, worse than ever. "What my brother was to me is my fucking business!" She realised she was stabbing at him with the knife, tossed it away across the table. "I'm not in the habit of explaining myself. I don't plan to start with the men I hire!"
"That's what I am to you, is it?"
"What else would you be?"
"After what I've done for you? After what I've lost?"
She flinched, hands trembling worse than ever. "Well paid, aren't you?"
"Paid?" He leaned towards her, pointing at his face. "How much is my eye worth, you evil cunt?"
She gave a strangled growl, jerked up from the chair, snatched up the lamp, turned her back on him and made for the door to the balcony.
"Where you going?" His voice had turned suddenly wheedling, as if he knew he'd stepped too far.
"Clear of your self-pity, bastard, before I'm sick!" She ripped the door open and stepped out into the cold air.
"Monza—" He was sitting slumped on the bed, the saddest sort of look on his face. On the half of it that still worked, anyway. Broken. Hopeless. Desperate. Fake eye pointing off sideways. He looked as if he was about to weep, to fall down, to beg to be forgiven.
She slammed the door shut. It suited her to have an excuse. She preferred the passing guilt of turning her back on him to the endless guilt of facing him. Much, much preferred it.
The view from the balcony might well have been among the most breathtaking in the world. Ospria dropped away below, a madman's maze of streaky copper roofs, each one of the four tiers of the city surrounded by its own battlemented walls and towers. Tall buildings of old, pale stone crowded tight behind them, narrow-windowed and striped with black marble, pressed in alongside steeply climbing streets, crooked alleys of a thousand steps, deep and dark as the canyons of mountain streams. A few early lights shone from scattered windows, flickering dots of sentries' torches moved on the walls. Beyond them the valley of the Sulva was sunk in the shadows of the mountains, only the faintest glimmer of the river in its bottom. At the summit of the highest hill on the other side, against the dark velvet of the sky, perhaps the pinpricks of the campfires of the Thousand Swords.