Her right leg had a patch of scaly rash across the thigh, so he took the left instead, cut it free, buttock and all, with three practised movements of his butcher's sickle. He popped the bone from the hip joint with a sharp twist of his wrists, took the foot off with two jerks of the curved blade, wrapped her belt around the neatly butchered leg to hold it folded and slid it into his bag.
A rump steak, then, thick-cut and pan-fried. He always carried a special mix of Suljuk four-spice with him, crushed to his taste, and the oil native to the region around Puranti had a wonderful nutty flavour. Then salt, and crushed pepper. Good meat was all in the seasoning. Pink in the centre, but not bloody. Shenkt had never been able to understand people who liked their meat bloody, the notion disgusted him. Onions sizzling alongside. Perhaps then dice the shank and make stew, with roots and mushrooms, a broth from the bones, a dash of that old Muris vinegar to give it…
"Zing."
He nodded to himself, carefully wiped the sickle clean, shouldered the bag, turned for the door and… stopped.
He had passed a baker's earlier, and thought what fine, crusty, new-baked loaves they had in the window. The smell of fresh bread. That glorious scent of honesty and simple goodness. He would very much have liked to be a baker, had he not been… what he was. Had he never been brought before his old master. Had he never followed the path laid out for him, and had he never rebelled against it. How well that bread would be, he now thought, sliced and thickly smeared with a coarse pвtй. Perhaps with a quince jelly, or some such, and a good glass of wine. He drew his knife again and went in through Lucky Nim's back for her liver.
After all, it was no use to her now.
Heroic Efforts, New Beginnings
The rain stopped, and the sun came out over the farmland, a faint rainbow stretching down from the grey heavens. Monza wondered if there was an elf-glade where it touched the ground, the way her father used to tell her. Or if there was just shit, like everywhere else. She leaned from her saddle and spat into the wheat.
Elf shit, maybe.
She pushed her wet hood back and scowled to the west, watching the showers roll off towards Puranti. If there was any justice they'd dump a deluge on Faithful Carpi and the Thousand Swords, their outriders probably no more than a day's ride behind. But there was no justice, and Monza knew it. The clouds pissed where they pleased.
The damp winter wheat was spattered with patches of red flowers, like smears of blood across the tawny country. It would be ready to harvest soon, except there'd be no one here to do the reaping. Rogont was doing what he was best at—pulling back, and the farmers were taking everything they could carry and pulling back with him towards Ospria. They knew the Thousand Swords were coming, and knew better than to be there when they did. There were no more infamous foragers in the world than the men Monza used to lead.
Forage, Farans wrote, is robbery so vast that it transcends mere crime, and enters the arena of politics.
She'd lost Benna's ring. She kept fussing at her middle finger with her thumb, endlessly disappointed to find it wasn't there. A pretty piece of rock hadn't changed the fact Benna was dead. But still it felt as if she'd lost some last little part of him she'd managed to cling on to. One of the last little parts of herself worth keeping.
She was lucky a ring was all she'd lost back in Puranti, though. She'd been careless, and it had nearly been the end of her. She had to stop smoking. Make a new beginning. Had to, and yet she was smoking more than ever. Each time she woke from sweet oblivion she told herself it would have to be the last, but a few hours later and she'd be sweating desperation from every pore. Waves of sick need, like an incoming tide, each one higher than the last. Each one resisted took a heroic effort, and Monza was no hero, however the people of Talins might once have cheered for her. She'd thrown her pipe away, then in a sticky panic bought another. She wasn't sure how many times she'd hidden the dwindling lump of husk down at the bottom of one bag or another. But she'd found there's a problem with hiding a thing yourself.
You always know where it is.
"I do not care for this country." Morveer stood from his swaying seat and peered out across the flat land. "This is good country for an ambush."
"That's why we're here," Monza growled back. Hedgerows, the odd stand of trees, brown houses and barns alone or in groups away across the fields—plenty of hiding places. Scarcely a thing moved. Scarcely a sound but for the crows, the wind flapping the canvas on the cart, the wheels rattling, splattering through an occasional puddle.
"Are you sure it is prudent to put your faith in Rogont?"
"You don't win battles with prudence."
"No, one plans murders with it. Rogont is notoriously untrustworthy even for a grand duke, and an old enemy of yours besides."
"I can trust him as far as what's in his own interest." The question was all the more irritating as it was one she'd been asking herself ever since they left Puranti. "Small risk for him killing Faithful Carpi, but a hell of a pay-off if I can bring him the Thousand Swords."
"But it would hardly be your first miscalculation. What if we are marooned out here in the path of an army? You are paying me to kill one man at a time, not fight a war single—"
"I paid you to kill one man in Westport, and you murdered fifty at a throw. I need no lessons from you in taking care."
"Scarcely more than forty, and that was due to too much care to get your man, not too little! Was your butcher's bill any shorter at Cardotti's House of Leisure? Or in Duke Salier's palace? Or at Caprile, for that matter? Forgive me if I have scant faith in your ability to keep violence contained!"
"Enough!" she snarled at him. "You're like a goat that won't stop bleating! Do the job I pay you for, and that's the end of it!"
Morveer pulled up the cart suddenly with a haul on the reins and Day squawked as she nearly fumbled her apple. "Is this the thanks I get for your timely rescue in Visserine? After you so pointedly ignored my sage advice?"
Vitari, sprawling among the supplies on the back of the cart, stuck up one long arm. "That rescue was as much my doing as his. No one's thanked me."
Morveer ignored her. "Perhaps I should find a more grateful employer!"
"Perhaps I should find a more obedient fucking poisoner!"
"Perhaps…! But wait." Morveer held up a finger, squeezing his eyes shut. "But wait." He puckered his lips and sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly blew it out. And again. Shivers rode up, raised his one eyebrow at Monza. One more breath, and Morveer's eyes came open, and he gave a chuckle of sickening falseness. "Perhaps… I should most sincerely apologise."
"What?"
"I realise I am… not always the easiest company." A sharp burst of laughter from Vitari and Morveer winced, but carried on. "If I seem always contrary it is because I want only the best for you and your venture. It has ever been a failing of mine to be too intransigent in my pursuit of excellence. There is no more important characteristic than pliability in a man who must, perforce, be your humble servant. Can I entreat you to make with me… a heroic effort? To put this unpleasantness behind us?" He snapped the reins and moved the cart on, still smiling thinly over his shoulder. "I feel it! A new beginning!"