Joe Abercrombie: Best Served Cold

A lesson Monza hardly needed to be taught. “The city is full of beggars, yes?”

“Beggars and refugees.” Rubine tugged his beard again. He’d tug the bastard out if he told many more sad tales. “A sign of the times-”

“Give the land away, then, to anyone who can yield a crop, and pay us tax. Farmland without farmers is nothing more than mud.”

Grulo inclined his head. “I will see to it.”

“You’re quiet, Volfier.” The old veteran stood there, glaring at the map and grinding his teeth.

“Fucking Etrisani!” he burst out, bashing his sword-hilt with one big fist. “I mean, sorry, that is, my apologies, your Excellency, but

… those bastards!”

Monza grinned. “More trouble on the border?”

“Three farms burned out.” Her grin faded. “The farmers missing. Then the patrol who went looking for them was shot at from the woods, one man killed, two wounded. The rest pursued, but mindful of your orders left off at the border.”

“They’re testing you,” said Vitari. “Angry because they were Orso’s first allies.”

Grulo nodded. “They gave up everything in his cause and hoped to reap a golden harvest when he became king.”

Volfier slapped angrily at the table’s edge. “Bastards think we’re too weak to stop ’em!”

“Are we?” asked Monza.

“We’ve three thousand foot and a thousand horse, all armed, drilled, all good men seen action before.”

“Ready to fight?”

“Only give the word, they’ll prove it!”

“What about the Etrisanese?”

“All bluster,” sneered Vitari. “A second-rate power at the best of times, and their best was long ago.”

“We have the advantage in numbers and quality,” growled Volfier.

“Undeniably, we have just cause,” said Rubine. “A brief sortie across the border to teach a sharp lesson-”

“We have the funds for a more significant campaign,” said Scavier. “I already have some ideas for financial demands that might leave us considerably enriched-”

“The people will support you,” cut in Grulo. “And indemnities will more than cover the expense!”

Monza frowned at the map, frowned in particular at those spots of blood in the corner. Benna would have counselled caution. Would have asked for time to think out a plan… but Benna was a long time dead, and Monza’s taste had always been to move fast, strike hard and worry about the plans afterwards. “Get your men ready to march, Colonel Volfier. I’ve a mind to take Etrisani under siege.”

“Siege?” muttered Rubine.

Vitari grinned sideways. “It’s when you surround a city and force its surrender.”

“I am aware of the definition!” snapped the old man. “But caution, your Excellency, Talins has but lately come through the most painful of upheavals-”

“I have only the greatest respect for your knowledge of the law, Rubine,” said Monza, “but war is my department, and believe me, once you go to war, there is nothing worse than half measures.”

“But what of making allies-”

“No one wants an ally who can’t protect what’s theirs. We need to demonstrate our resolve, or the wolves will all be sniffing round our carcass. We need to bring these dogs in Etrisani to heel.”

“Make them pay,” hissed Scavier.

“Crush them,” growled Grulo.

Volfier was grinning wide as he saluted. “I’ll have the men mustered and ready within the week.”

“I’ll polish up my armour,” she said, though she kept it polished anyway. “Anything else?” The five of them stayed silent. “My thanks, then.”

“Your Excellency.” They bowed each in their own ways, Rubine with the frown of weighty doubts, Vitari with the slightest, lingering smirk.

Monza watched them file out. She might have liked to put aside the sword and make things grow. The way she’d wanted to long ago, after her father died. Before the Years of Blood began. But she’d seen enough to know that no battle is ever the last, whatever people might want to believe. Life goes on. Every war carries within it the seeds of the next, and she planned to be good and ready for the harvest.

Get out your plough, by all means, Farans wrote, but keep a dagger handy, just in case.

She frowned at the map, left hand straying down to rest on her stomach. It was starting to swell. Three months, now, since her blood had come. That meant it was Rogont’s child. Or maybe Shivers’. A dead man’s child or a killer’s, a king’s or a beggar’s. All that really mattered was that it was hers.

She walked slowly to the desk, dropped into the chair, pulled the chain from her shirt and turned the key in the lock. She took out Orso’s crown, the reassuring weight between her palms, the reassuring pain in her right hand as she lifted it and placed it carefully on the papers scattered across the scuffed leather top. Gold gleamed in the winter sun. The jewels she’d had prised out, sold to pay for weapons. Gold, to steel, to more gold, just as Orso always told her. Yet she found she couldn’t part with the crown itself.

Rogont had died unmarried, without heirs. His child, even his bastard, would have a good claim on his titles. Grand Duke of Ospria. King of Styria, even. Rogont had worn the crown, after all, even if it had been a poisoned one, and only for a vainglorious instant. She felt the slightest smile at the corner of her mouth. When you lose all you have, you can always seek revenge. But if you get it, what then? Orso had spoken that much truth. Life goes on. You need new dreams to look to.

She shook herself, snatched the crown up and slid it back inside the desk. Staring at it wasn’t much better than staring at her husk-pipe, wondering whether or not to put the fire to it. She was just turning the key in the lock as the doors were swung open and her chamberlain grazed the floor again with his face.

“And this time?”

“A representative of the Banking House of Valint and Balk, your Excellency.”

Monza had known they were coming, of course, but they were no more welcome for that. “Send him in.”

For a man from an institution that could buy and sell nations, he didn’t look like much. Younger than she’d expected, with a curly head of hair, a pleasant manner and an easy grin. That worried her more than ever.

The bitterest enemies come with the sweetest smiles. Verturio. Who else?

“Your Excellency.” He bowed almost as low as her chamberlain, which took some doing.

“Master…?”

“Sulfur. Yoru Sulfur, at your service.” He had different-coloured eyes, she noticed as he drew closer to the desk-one blue, one green.

“From the Banking House of Valint and Balk.”

“I have the honour of representing that proud institution.”

“Lucky you.” She glanced around the great chamber. “I’m afraid a lot of damage was done in the assault. Things are more… functional than they were in Orso’s day.”

His smile only widened. “I noticed a little damage to the walls on my way in. But functional suits me perfectly, your Excellency. I am here to discuss business. To offer you, in fact, the full backing of my employers.”

“I understand you came often to my predecessor, Grand Duke Orso, to offer him your full backing.”

“Quite so.”

“And now I have murdered him and stolen his place, you come to me.”

Sulfur did not even blink. “Quite so.”

“Your backing moulds easily to new situations.”

“We are a bank. Every change must be an opportunity.”

“And what do you offer?”

“Money,” he said brightly. “Money to fund armies. Money to fund public works. Money to return glory to Talins, and to Styria. Perhaps even money to render your palace less… functional.”

Monza had left a fortune in gold buried near the farm where she was born. She preferred to leave it there still. Just in case. “And if I like it sparse?”