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.”
“Shit.” He
squinted up at the clouds. “Your eyes, then, gleam like
piercing sapphires, beyond price!”
“I’ve got stones
in my face, now?”
“Lips like rose
petals?”
She spat at him, but he
was ready and dodged it, the phlegm clearing his horse and falling on
the dry stones beside the track. “That’s to make your roses
grow, arsehole. You can do better.”
