Best Served Cold

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The sunrise was the colour of bad blood. it leaked out of the east and stained the dark sky red, marked the scraps of cloud with stolen gold. Underneath it the road twisted up the mountainside towards the fortress of Fontezarmo—a cluster of sharp towers, ash-black against the wounded heavens. The sunrise was red, black and gold.

The colours of their profession.

"You look especially beautiful this morning, Monza."

She sighed, as if that was an accident. As if she hadn't spent an hour preening herself before the mirror. "Facts are facts. Stating them isn't a gift. You only prove you're not blind." She yawned, stretched in her saddle, made him wait a moment longer. "But I'll hear more."

He noisily cleared his throat and held up one hand, a bad actor preparing for his grand speech. "Your hair is like to… a veil of shimmering sable!"

"You pompous cock. What was it yesterday? A curtain of midnight. I liked that better, it had some poetry to it. Bad poetry, but still."

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