But then fine lies beat tedious truths every time, as he had often told her.

The Duke of Talins himself sat crabbed over a desk, wielding a pen rather than a sword. A tall, gaunt, hook-nosed man stood at his elbow, staring down as keenly as a vulture waiting for thirsty travellers to die. A great shape lurked near them, in the shadows against the wall. Gobba, Orso’s bodyguard, fat-necked as a great hog. Prince Ario, the duke’s eldest son and heir, lounged in a gilded chair nearer at hand. He had one leg crossed over the other, a wine glass dangling carelessly, a bland smile balanced on his blandly handsome face.

“I found these beggars wandering the grounds,” called Foscar, “and thought I’d commend them to your charity, Father!”

“Charity?” Orso’s sharp voice echoed around the cavernous room. “I am not a great admirer of the stuff. Make yourselves comfortable, my friends, I will be with you shortly.”

“If it isn’t the Butcher of Caprile,” murmured Ario, “and her little Benna too.”

“Your Highness. You look well.” Monza thought he looked an indolent cock, but kept it to herself.

“You too, as ever. If all soldiers looked as you did, I might even be tempted to go on campaign myself. A new bauble?” Ario waved his own jewel-encrusted hand limply towards the ruby on Monza’s finger.

“Just what was to hand when I was dressing.”

“I wish I’d been there. Wine?”

“Just after dawn?”

He glanced heavy-lidded towards the windows. “Still last night as far as I’m concerned.” As if staying up late was a heroic achievement.

“I will.” Benna was already pouring himself a glass, never to be outdone as far as showing off went. Most likely he’d be drunk within the hour and embarrass himself, but Monza was tired of playing his mother. She strolled past the monumental fireplace held up by carven figures of Juvens and Kanedias, and towards Orso’s desk.