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

The king glanced sideways and, just for an instant, caught Savine’s eye. That same sad, needy look, and she stared down at her very fine shoes. She had no idea why she should be embarrassed. She was not the one who had fucked her mother and abandoned the results. But still her face burned.

She had always loved grand events, but she hated everything and everyone today, and herself most of all. She missed Orso like an arm cut off. She would think of some observation only he would understand, and smile, and turn to Zuri to arrange a meeting … and then that sappy pang of loss all over again.

Leo dan Brock had been a pleasing diversion. From the neck down, he was astonishing. When she opened his shirt, she had spent a moment just staring. It was as if he was carved from flesh-coloured marble by a sculptor intent on exaggeration. There had been a moment when he lifted her clean off her feet so effortlessly, it felt as if she might never come down …

But in the end, what truly makes a man is above the neck. The instant she made a joke, Orso would have pounced upon it, unfolded and developed it, tossed it back delightfully changed. Leo scarcely realised a joke had been made. Like that new invention Curnsbick was always prattling about, he was a wagon on rails. Conversationally he went only one way, and that at no great speed.

She needed a little something. She bent as if to adjust her shoe and slipped the silver box from her sleeve. Just a pinch to settle the nerves. That first pinch, which was actually about the fifth that morning, did not quite do the trick, so she took a bigger one. A lady of taste never leaves a job half-done, after all.

She straightened up sharply and nearly toppled right over, the rush of blood to her head so savage she thought her eyes might pop from her skull. When things came back into focus, she realised Zuri was holding her firmly by the elbow.

‘What?’ snarled Savine, ripping her arm free. She felt guilty right away. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. I’d be lost without you.’

‘Lady Savine …’ Zuri glanced carefully about the royal box. Her stumble had evidently been noticed. They were always watching, the fucking vultures, hoping for fresh meat to rip at. ‘You do not seem yourself.’

‘Who am I now, exactly? Answer me that .’ She was close to shrieking all of a sudden, the pulse throbbing behind her temples, and she wiped her sore nose, and closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Zuri. No one deserves being shouted at less than you.’

‘Do you need to leave?’

‘And miss all this shit?’ As she waved towards the thronging square, Savine noticed the finger and thumbtip of her glove were stained white with pearl dust and tried unsuccessfully to slap it off against her other hand.

‘Sticky fingers?’ murmured her father from the side of his mouth. Although, of course, he was not her father. Arch Lector Glokta, entirely unrelated by blood.

‘Nothing you need to concern yourself with,’ she snapped.

‘But I am concerned.’ He continued to gaze out at the crowd as the distant cheering grew louder, the happy parade approaching through the streets of the Agriont, but he crooked one finger to beckon her down beside his chair. ‘Might I ask what you are doing with Brock?’

‘You know about that?’

‘I imagine half of Adua knows about it.’

‘The last thing I need is a fucking lecture ,’ she snarled, and suddenly, entirely unbidden, entirely inappropriate, a memory welled up. That dark-skinned little girl, wet eyes lit by flames, pleading with her in a filthy alley in Valbeck. Please, please, please, over and over, the crushing terror and the stink of burning.

Her clothes were too tight, far too tight, she could hardly breathe. She twisted and wriggled in a sweaty panic, fumbled pointlessly behind her waist at laces she knew she could not loosen. No more than a prisoner could pick their shackles off with their fingernails.

Her father frowned up at her. ‘Whatever has got into you, Savine?’

‘Into me ?’ Fury bubbling up again as she caught the arm of his chair and bent to hiss in his ear. ‘Do you know what your wife told me?’

‘Of course I know. What kind of a fool do you take me for?’

She gave a snort of bitter, snotty laughter. ‘Not half as big a one as you and my mother took me for.’

A flurry of twitches ran up the left side of his face and set his eyelid flickering. ‘Your mother was young, and alone, and she made a mistake. Since then, all she has thought of is what was best for you.’

‘That and draining a bottle— ah!’

Her father’s hand gripped her arm, pulling her down closer. He forced the words through tight lips. ‘Put aside your pique , this is serious.’

‘Pique?’ she whispered. ‘ Pique? I’m a lie , do you not understand?’

Several people had evidently caught the anger of their exchange, curious faces turned towards them. One in particular. The First of the Magi stood beside the king, dressed in robes with a dash of the arcane now, for a public appearance. He smiled, a knowing little smile, and gave her a nod of acknowledgement.

Her father did not miss it. He scarcely moved his thin lips, but she could see a muscle working on the side of his head. ‘Has he approached you?’

‘Who?’

‘Bayaz,’ he hissed, gripping her wrist almost painfully tight.

‘I’ve never spoken to him.’ Savine frowned. ‘Though … there was a man, at the Solar Society, who claimed to be a magus. He didn’t look like one.’

The cords in her father’s thin neck shifted as he swallowed. ‘Sulfur?’

‘He said some nonsense about changing the world. About seeking new friends—’

‘Whatever they ask for, whatever they offer, refuse, do you understand?’ He looked up at her now. She was not sure she had ever seen him look scared before. ‘Refuse and come to me at once.’

‘What the hell has Bayaz to do with anything—’

‘Everything!’ He gripped her even tighter, pulled her even closer. ‘I hardly think you have considered the danger of your position. Bastard or no, you are the king’s oldest child. That could make you very valuable. And very vulnerable. Now pull yourself together . This sulking is beneath you.’ He let go of her, wiped a tear from his weeping left eye and began politely to applaud as Leo dan Brock rode into the square, smiling hugely, and the cheering was redoubled.

Savine slowly straightened, rubbing at the livid marks her father’s fingers had left on her wrist. She wanted to punch him in his toothless mouth. She wanted to scream at the mad top of her voice, right in the king’s face. She wanted at least to storm furiously away.

But that would only draw attention. And no one could know. Her father was right about that. Or he would have been, if he had been her father. Bayaz was still smiling straight at her. Less majestic than the statue which stood not far off on the Kingsway, but a great deal more smug. All Savine could do was turn her attention to the square, push her shoulders back, her chin up and her face into the blandest smile imaginable, and clap.

And fume like a boiling kettle.

Orso heard the cheering ahead as the parade reached the Square of Marshals. He heard the chanting of, ‘Leo! Leo!’ The calls of, ‘The Young Lion!’ There could be no doubt the manly bastard filled the role of hero spectacularly well. Far better than Orso ever could.

He had to admit to being pleasantly surprised by the new Lord Governor of Angland. He had expected him to be a humourless thug and, yes, he had the usual provincial prejudices, but he turned out to be rather winningly honest and generous. A hard man to hate. The poor bastard had no idea he was hammering nails into Orso’s skull when he talked about Savine. He had no idea about a lot of things. Probably she would squeeze the hapless fool until his pips squeaked and leave him a pining husk. It would hardly be the first time she’d done it. All it took was the thought of her with another man to leave Orso wanting to puke out his eyes.