Some things are inevitable.
Thus the Whirligig…
Shivers' axe clanged into the pipes again. He didn't know what the hell they were for but they made a bastard of a racket. Monza had already dodged away though, weighing her sword, narrowed eyes fixed on his. More'n likely he should've just axed her in the back of the skull and put an end to it. But he wanted her to know who'd done it, and why. Needed her to know.
"You don't have to do this," she hissed at him. "You could still walk away."
"I thought the dead could do the forgiving," he said, circling to cut off her space.
"I'm offering you a chance, Shivers. Back to the North, no one would chase you."
"They're free to fucking try, but I reckon I'll stay a little longer. A man has to stick at something, don't he? I've got my pride, still."
"Shit on your pride! You'd be selling your arse in the alleys of Talins if it wasn't for me!" True, more'n likely. "You knew the risks. You chose to take my money." True too. "I made no promises to you and I broke none!" True and all. "That bitch Eider won't give you a scale!"
Hard to argue with most of that, maybe, but it was too late to go back now, and besides, an axe in the head is the last word in any argument. "We'll see." Shivers eased towards her, shield leading the way. "But this ain't about money. This is about… vengeance. Thought you'd understand that."
"Shit on your vengeance!" She snatched up the stool and flung it at him, underhand. He got his shield in the way and knocked it spinning over the balcony, but she pressed in fast behind it. He managed to catch her sword on the haft of his axe, blade scraping down and just holding on the studs in the wood. She ended up close, pressed against him almost, snarling, point of her sword waving near his good eye.
She spat in his face, made him flinch, threw an elbow and caught him under the jaw, knocked his head sideways. She pulled her sword back for a thrust but he lashed at her first. She dodged, the axe hacked into the railing and broke a great chunk of wood from it. He twisted away, knowing her sword would be coming, felt the steel slide through his shirt and leave a line of hot pain across his stomach as it whipped out. She stumbled towards him, off balance. He shifted his weight, growled as he swung his shield round with all his strength and all his rage behind it. It hit her square in the face, snapped her head about and sent her reeling into the pipes with a dull clang, back of her skull leaving a great dent. She bounced off and pitched over on her back on the wooden floor, sword clattering from her hand.
He stared at her for a moment, blood whacking at his skull, sweat tickling his scarred face. A muscle twitched in her neck. Not a thick neck. He could've stepped up and cut her head off easy as chopping logs. His fingers worked nervously round the grip of his axe at the thought. She coughed out blood, groaned, shook her head. She started to roll over, eyes glassy, dragged herself up onto hands and knees. She reached out woozily for the grip of her sword.
"No, no." He stepped up close and kicked it into the corner.
She flinched, turned her head away from him, started crawling slowly after the blade, breathing hard, blood from her nose pit-pattering on the wooden floor. He followed, standing over her, talking. Strange, that. The Bloody-Nine had told him once—if you mean to kill, you kill, you don't talk about it—and it was advice he'd always tried to stick to. He could've killed her easily as crushing a beetle, but he didn't. He wasn't sure if he was talking to stretch the moment out or talking to put the moment off. But he was talking, still.
"Let's not pretend like you're the injured party in all this! You've killed half o' Styria so you could get your way! You're a scheming, lying, poisoning, murdering, treacherous, brother-fucking cunt. Aren't you! I'm doing the right thing. S'all about where you stand and that. I'm no monster. So maybe my reasons ain't the noblest. Everyone's got their reasons. The world'll still be better for one less o' you!" He wished his voice hadn't been down to a croak, because that was a fact. "I'm doing the right thing!" A fact, and he wanted her to admit it. She owed him that. "Better for one less o' you!" He leaned down over her, lips curling back, heard footsteps hammering up to his side, turned—
Friendly rammed into him full-tilt and took him off his feet. Shivers snarled, caught him round the back with his shield arm, but the best he could do was drag the convict with him. They plunged through the railing with a snapping of wood and went tumbling out into empty air.
Nicomo Cosca came into view, whipping off his hat and flinging it theatrically across the room, where it presumably missed its intended peg since Morveer saw it tumble to the floor not far from the latrine door behind which he had concealed himself. His mouth twisted into a triumphant sneer in the pungent darkness. The old mercenary held in his hand a metal flask. The very one Morveer himself had tossed at Cosca as an offhand insult in Sipani. The wretched old drunk must have gone back and collected it afterwards, no doubt hoping to lick out the barest trickle of grog. How hollow now did his promise seem never to drink again? So much for man's ability to change. Morveer had expected little better, of course, from the world's leading expert on empty bravado, but Cosca's almost pitiable level of debasement surprised even him.
The sound of the cabinet being opened reached his ear. "Just must fill this up." Cosca's voice, though he was out of sight. Metal clinked.
Morveer could just observe the weasel-like visage of his companion. "How can you drink that piss?"
"I have to drink something, don't I? It was recommended to me by an old friend, now, alas, dead."
"Do you have any old friends who aren't dead?"
"Only you, Victus. Only you."
A rattling of glass and Cosca swaggered through the narrow strip to which Morveer's vision was reduced, his flask in one hand, a glass and bottle in the other. It was a distinctive purple vessel, which Morveer clearly remembered poisoning but a few moments ago. It seemed he had engineered another fatal irony. Cosca would be responsible for his own destruction, as he had been so often before. But this time with a fitting finality. He heard the rustling, snapping sound of cards being shuffled.
"Five scales a hand?" came Cosca's voice. "Or shall we play for honour?"
Both men burst out laughing. "Let's make it ten."
"Ten it is." Further shuffling. "Well, this is civilised. Nothing like cards while other men fight, eh? Just like old times."
"Except no Andiche, no Sesaria and no Sazine."
"Aside from that," conceded Cosca. "Now then. Will you deal, or shall I?"
Friendly growled as he dragged himself clear of the wreckage. Shivers was a few strides away, on the other side of the heap of broken wood and ivory, twisted brass and tangled wire that was all that remained of Duke Orso's harpsichord. The Northman rolled onto his knees, shield still on his arm, axe still gripped in his other fist, blood running down the side of his face from a cut just above his gleaming metal eye.
"You counting fuck! I was going to say my quarrel ain't with you. But now it is."
They slowly stood, together, watching each other. Friendly slid his knife from its sheath, his cleaver out from his jacket, the worn grips smooth and familiar in his palms. He could forget about all the chaos in the gardens, now, all the madness in the palace. One man against one man, the way it used to be, in Safety. One and one. The plainest arithmetic he could ask for.
"Right, then," said Friendly, and he grinned.
"Right, then," hissed Shivers through gritted teeth.
One of the mercenaries who had been breaking the room apart took a half-step towards them. "What the hell is—"