He’d made an ill-advised attempt at a beard since Monza had last seen him but the sprinkling of sandy hairs only made him look more boyish. He might have inherited all the honesty in his family, but the looks had gone elsewhere. Benna grinned, threw one arm around Foscar’s shoulders and ruffled his hair. An insult from anyone else, from Benna it was effortlessly charming. He had a knack of making people happy that always seemed like magic to Monza. Her talents lay in the opposite direction.

“Your father here yet?” she asked.

“Yes, and my brother too. They’re with their banker.”

“How’s his mood?”

“Good, so far as I can tell, but you know my father. Still, he’s never angry with you two, is he? You always bring good news. You bring good news today, yes?”

“Shall I tell him, Monza, or-”

“Borletta’s fallen. Cantain’s dead.”

Foscar didn’t celebrate. He hadn’t his father’s appetite for corpses. “Cantain was a good man.”

That was a long way from the point, as far as Monza could see. “He was your father’s enemy.”

“A man you could respect, though. There are precious few of them left in Styria. He’s really dead?”

Benna blew out his cheeks. “Well, his head’s off, and spiked above the gates, so unless you know one hell of a physician…”

They passed through a high archway, the hall beyond dim and echoing as an emperor’s tomb, light filtering down in dusty columns and pooling on the marble floor. Suits of old armour stood gleaming to silent attention, antique weapons clutched in steel fists. The sharp clicking of boot heels snapped from the walls as a man in a dark uniform paced towards them.

“Shit,” Benna hissed in her ear. “That reptile Ganmark’s here.”

“Leave it be.”

“There’s no way that cold-blooded bastard’s as good with a sword as they say-”