Джо Аберкромби - A Little Hatred - Book One (The Age of Madness)

‘She took me to …’ No, no, that sounded too weak. ‘I met her, I should say, at the office of some writer .’ The prince’s face gave an ugly twitch. Even less keen on books than Leo was, maybe. ‘But … she didn’t invite me to read, if you take my meaning.’

‘I think I can deduce it.’ Orso’s voice sounded strangled, but Leo had never been much good at finding the hidden meaning in things. He was a straightforward fellow. So he carried on. Straightforwardly. Was that a word?

‘A night of passion … with a beautiful and mysterious older woman.’

‘Surely every young man’s dream,’ grated Orso.

‘Yes, except …’ Leo wasn’t sure if he should say more. But Orso was a man of the world. Infamously so. Maybe he could help make sense of it? ‘If the story got out, people might think I made use of her, but … I’ve a feeling she made use of me.’

‘We all want to be wanted,’ growled Orso, eyes fixed ahead.

‘The way she looked at me.’ As if he was her next meal. ‘The way she touched me.’ With no gentleness and no doubts. ‘The way she spoke to me.’ Knowing just what she wanted and not caring a damn for what he might. The thought was making him stiff in his dress trousers. ‘It was just like …’

His eyes went wide. Bloody hell, it was just the way his mother talked to him! That thought made his trousers droop even more quickly than they’d risen. Could it be … deep down … he liked being spoken to that way?

‘You know,’ said Orso, checking his mount, ‘I really shouldn’t be here.’

‘What?’

‘You deserve it. I don’t.’ Orso clapped him on the arm and, without waiting for a reply, pulled his horse to the side and began to drop back.

Till then there’d been the odd false note in the applause. Boos, mocking calls of, ‘Young lamb,’ even outright screeches of, ‘Murderer!’ But when Orso left, he took all criticism with him, and with Leo leading the parade alone, riding beneath the Steadfast Standard just as Casamir himself might’ve, the cheering was twice as loud. The flower petals fell in fountains. Urchins pointed fingers, eyes wide in dirt-smudged faces. There goes the Young Lion, saviour of the Union!

Leo smiled. It wasn’t hard to do. Orso was right, after all. He did deserve the glory.

How many people can say they won a war single-handed?

Everyone had cheered for Leo dan Brock, up on his own at the front of the parade, a famous hero from head to toe. Things quietened down a lot as the great men of the Open Council followed.

‘That’s fucking Isher,’ growled Broad as he rode past with his chin in the air, great gilded cloak spread out across the hindquarters of his prancing horse. ‘The one who stole our land. Looks like he’s done all right out of it, the—’

‘Let it go.’ Liddy’s hand was gentle on the back of his. Gentle but firm. ‘Your anger won’t hurt him any, but it could hurt us.’

‘Aye,’ said Broad, taking a hard breath. ‘You’re right.’ It had hurt them enough already.

Fur-trimmed worthies followed the lords, trying to steal a piece of glory they’d had no part in winning. Next came the officers, and Broad turned his head and spat. After what he’d been through in Styria, he liked those bastards no better than the lords.

‘There’s Orso!’ called a child up on shoulders.

‘Why’s he back here?’

‘Shamed to show his face beside a real hero,’ someone grumbled.

Broad saw him, now. Sat on a fine grey in this loose, relaxed way like he didn’t know what guilt was, an odd little smirk at the corner of his mouth as he chatted to some old soldier in a fine fur hat.

‘Shame!’ someone roared. ‘Down wi’ the crown prince!’ A tall man with a thick black beard, standing on tiptoe to shout over the heads of those in front. Folk frowned around at him but he’d the light of madness in his eyes and didn’t back down a step. ‘Murderer!’

Liddy shook her head. ‘Damn fool will only cause trouble.’

‘Got a point, though,’ muttered Broad. ‘Orso is a bloody murderer.’

‘Didn’t Valbeck teach you any lessons at all, Gunnar? You can have a point and still keep it to yourself.’

‘Two hundred good men and women he hanged as traitors,’ grumbled Broad.

‘They were traitors,’ said May, jaw tight. ‘That’s just a fact.’

Broad didn’t like hearing it, specially from his own daughter. ‘We could argue that case, I reckon.’ Though arguing with May never got him anywhere he wanted to go. ‘Truth is, Leo dan Brock fought in a war. Orso just sat in a tent and lied.’

‘Cheer for Leo dan Brock, then,’ muttered Liddy, ‘and leave His Highness out of it. You’ve no idea who’s listening. Inquisition are everywhere.’

That bearded bastard didn’t seem to care. ‘Shit on the Young Lamb!’ he bellowed through cupped hands, and Orso looked over with that faint, bored smile, and gave a little bow, and there was some scattered laughter which Broad had to admit took a little venom out of the gathering.

Moments later, someone barged his shoulder and three black-clothed men shoved through the crowd. The bearded heckler saw them, spun about, but another two were coming the other way. The crowd surged back as if from a plague victim as the Practicals caught him, shoved him down, started forcing a stained bag over his head.

‘No!’ hissed Liddy. Was only then Broad noticed her hand on his arm. Both hands, dragging him back as hard as she could. ‘No more trouble!’ Was only then he noticed his every muscle was stiff and his fists clenched trembling tight and his lips curled back in a snarl.

‘Don’t you dare fuck this up for us!’ May had slipped in front of him, was stabbing her pointed finger in his face. ‘Not when we just got right!’ There were tears glimmering in her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare !’

Broad took a deep breath and let it shudder away. Watched as three Practicals manhandled that poor fool through the crowd. Could’ve been him, dragged off to the House of Questions. Would’ve been him, gibbetted beside the road to Valbeck, if it hadn’t been for May and the biggest slice of luck an undeserving man ever got.

‘I won’t, May.’ He felt tears in his own eyes then, eased his lenses down his nose to rub them dry. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You promised us,’ hissed Liddy, dragging him back towards the tramping men, and the high-stepping horses, and the flags and shiny metal. ‘No more trouble.’

‘No more trouble.’ Broad put his arms around his wife and his daughter, and held them both close. ‘I promise.’

But his fists were still so tightly clenched, they ached.

Savine had always loved grand events. The bigger the crowd, the more opportunities to turn strangers into acquaintances, acquaintances into friends, and friends into money. They were a chance to be seen, and therefore admired, and therefore kept powerful. Because power is a mountain one is always sliding down. A mountain one must claw and strive and scramble always to keep one’s place upon, let alone to climb higher. A mountain made not of rock, but of everyone else’s writhing, struggling, grasping bodies.

Events came no grander than this one. A holiday had been declared for the working folk of Adua and the furnaces had been doused and the vapours cleared. It was warm for the start of winter, the sun shining crisp upon the revelling crowds. Those of the great and good who had not joined the famous victors on their parade were gathered here at the end of the route, along with a multitude of the small and bad, in the Square of Marshals.

Savine was at the heart of it, at one end of the purple-swagged royal box, along with most of the Closed Council, a legion of toadying footmen and stern Knights of the Body, not to mention Their August Majesties the High King and Queen of the Union. Terez stood painfully erect at the very pinnacle of power, honouring the crowd with the occasional scornful wave, unquestioned mistress of all she saw. For once, Savine did not need to make an effort to be jealous. That could have been her place. Should have been. Almost had been.