"Talking of remuneration," Morveer droned on, "we should visit the nearest bank and have a note drawn up. I hate to have debts outstanding between myself and an employer. It leaves a sour taste on our otherwise honey-sweet relationship."
"Sweet," grunted Day, around a mouthful, though whether she was talking about her cake or the relationship, it was impossible to say.
"You owe me for my part in General Ganmark's demise, a peripheral yet vital one, since it prevented you from partaking in a demise of your own. I have also to replace the equipment so carelessly lost in Visserine. Need I once again point out that, had you allowed me to remove our problematic farmers as I desired, there would have been no—"
"Enough," hissed Murcatto. "I don't pay you to be reminded of my mistakes."
"I imagine that service too is free of charge." Vitari slid down from the parapet. Day swallowed the last of her cake and licked her fingers. They all made ready to move, except for Friendly. He stayed, looking down at the water.
"Time to move," said Murcatto.
"Yes. I am going back to Talins."
"You're what?"
"Sajaam was sending word to me here, but there is no letter."
"It's a long way to Talins. There's a war—"
"This is Styria. There's always a war."
There was a pause while she looked at him, her eyes almost hidden in her hood. The others watched, none showing much feeling at his going. People rarely did, when he went, and nor did he. "You're sure?" she asked.
"Yes." He had seen half of Styria—Westport, Sipani, Visserine and much of the country in between—and hated it all. He had felt shiftless and scared sitting in Sajaam's smoke-house, dreaming of Safety. Now those long days, the smell of husk, the endless cards and posturing, the routine rounds of the slums collecting money, the occasional moments of predictable and well-structured violence, all seemed like some happy dream. There was nothing for him out here, where every day was under a different sky. Murcatto was chaos, and he wanted no more of her.
"Take this then." She pulled a purse out from her coat.
"I am not here for your money."
"Take it anyway. It's a lot less than you deserve. Might make the journey easier." He let her press it into his hand.
"Luck be at your back," said Shivers.
Friendly nodded. "The world is made of six, today."
"Six be at your back, then."
"It will be, whether I want it or not." Friendly swept up the dice with the side of his hand, wrapped them carefully in their cloth and tucked them down inside his jacket. Without a backward glance he slipped off through the crowds lining the bridge, against the endless current of soldiers, over the endless current of water. He left both behind, struck on into the smaller, meaner part of the city on the river's western side. He would pass the time by counting the number of strides it took him to reach Talins. Since he said his goodbyes he had made already three hundred and sixty-six—
"Master Friendly!" He jerked round, frowning, hands itching ready to move to knife and cleaver. A figure leaned lazily in a doorway off the street, arms and boots crossed, face all in shadow. "Whatever are the odds of meeting you here?" The voice sounded terribly familiar. "Well, you would know the odds better than me, I'm sure, but a happy chance indeed, on that we can agree."
"We can," said Friendly, beginning to smile as he realised who it was.
"Why, I feel almost as if I threw a pair of sixes…"
The Eye-Maker
A bell tinkled as Shivers shoved the door open and stepped through into the shop, Monza at his shoulder. It was dim inside, light filtering through the window in a dusty shaft and falling across a marble counter, shadowy shelves down one wall. At the back, under a hanging lamp, was a big chair with a leather pad to rest your head on. Might've looked inviting, except for the straps to hold the sitter down. On a table beside it a neat row of instruments were laid out. Blades, needles, clamps, pliers. Surgeon's tools.
That room might've given him a cold tremble fit to match his name once, but no more. He'd had his eye burned out of his face, and lived to learn the lessons. The world hardly seemed to have any horrors left. Made him smile, to think how scared he'd always been before. Scared of everything and nothing. Smiling tugged at the great wound under his bandages and made his face burn, so he stopped.
The bell brought a man creeping through a side door, hands rubbing nervously together. Small and dark-skinned with a sorry face. Worried they were here to rob him, more'n likely, what with Orso's army not far distant. Everyone in Puranti seemed worried, scared they'd lose what they had. Apart from Shivers himself. He hadn't much to lose.
"Sir, madam, can I be of assistance?"
"You're Scopal?" asked Monza. "The eye-maker?"
"I am Scopal," he bent a nervous bow, "scientist, surgeon, physician, specialising in all things relating to the vision."
Shivers undid the knot at the back of his head. "Good enough." And he started unwinding the bandages. "Fact is I've lost an eye."
That perked the surgeon up. "Oh, don't say lost, my friend!" He came forwards into the light from the window. "Don't say lost until I have had a chance to view the damage. You would be amazed at what can be achieved! Science is leaping forwards every day!"
"Springy bastard, ain't it."
Scopal gave an uncertain chuckle. "Ah… most elastic. Why, I have returned a measure of sight to men who thought themselves blind for life. They called me a magician! Imagine that! They called me… a…"
Shivers peeled away the last bandages, the air cold against his tingling skin, and he stepped up closer, turning the left side of his face forwards. "Well? What do you reckon? Can science make that big a jump?"
The man gave a polite nod. "My apologies. But even in the area of replacement I have made great discoveries, never fear!"
Shivers took a half-step further, looming over the man. "Do I look feared to you?"
"Not in the least, of course, I merely meant… well…" Scopal cleared his throat and sidled to the shelves. "My current process for an ocular prosthesis is—"
"The fuck?"
"Fake eye," said Monza.
"Oh, much, much more than that." Scopal slid out a wooden rack. Six metal balls sat on it, gleaming silver-bright. "A perfect sphere of the finest Midderland steel is inserted into the orbit where it will, one hopes, remain permanently." He brought down a round board, flipped it towards them with a showy twist. It was covered with eyes. Blue ones, green ones, brown ones. Each had the colour of a real eye, the gleam of a real eye, some of the whites even had a red vein or two in 'em. And still they looked about as much like a real eye as a boiled egg might've.
Scopal waved at his wares with high smugness. "A curved enamel such as these, painted with care to match perfectly your other eye, is then inserted between metal ball and eyelid. These are prone to wear, and must therefore be regularly changed, but, believe me, the results can be uncanny."
The fake eyes stared, unblinking, at Shivers. "They look like dead men's eyes."
An uncomfortable pause. "When glued upon a board, of course, but properly fitted within a living face—"
"Reckon it's a good thing. Dead men tell no lies, eh? We'll have no more lies." Shivers strode to the back of the shop, dropped down into the chair, stretched out and crossed his legs. "Get to it, then."
"At once?"
"Why not?"
"The steel will take an hour or two to fit. Preparing a set of enamels usually requires at least a fortnight—" Monza tossed a stack of silver coins onto the counter and they jingled as they spilled across the stone. Scopal humbly bowed his head. "I will fit the closest I have, and have the rest ready by tomorrow evening." He turned the lamp up so bright Shivers had to shield his good eye with one hand. "It will be necessary to make some incisions."