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

‘Here the best the Gurkish could send against us were utterly crushed!’ And Bayaz shook one meaty fist, calling up a patriotic grumble as a conductor calls up the percussion. ‘Here their great emperor was utterly laid low. Here the Prophet Khalul was utterly humbled, his cursed army of Eaters sent back to hell where they belonged. We were told the emperor’s soldiers were countless, the Prophet’s children indestructible. But the Union was victorious! I was victorious. The forces of superstition and savagery were defeated, and the gates opened to a new age of progress and prosperity.’ Bayaz’s smile was huge enough to be seen all the way across the arena. Clearly a magus could be as pleased with his own past glories as any other old man.

‘To me – for it needs hardly to be said that I am very old – it still feels like yesterday. But the bright-eyed young heroes who fought the Gurkish here are old greybeards now.’ And he set a heavy hand down on the shoulder of King Jezal, who looked more queasy than pleased by the recognition. ‘The pages of history turn, one generation gives way to another, and today we have not one, but two new famous Union victories to celebrate! In the North, on the barren borders of Angland, Lord Governor Brock defeated enemies without!’ There was widespread cheering, and a child on someone’s shoulders frantically waved a little Union flag. ‘While here in Midderland, outside the walls of Valbeck, Crown Prince Orso put paid to rebellion within!’

Orso’s applause was quieter, especially at this end of the square, and what there was had the overblown quality of coming from purse rather than heart. The prince had few friends among the nobility, even fewer among the common folk. From what Vick could see of his expression, he knew it, too.

‘I feel bad for Orso.’ Tallow gave a maudlin little sigh. He’d a talent for maudlin, that boy. ‘Wasn’t his fault those folk got hanged.’

‘Guess not,’ said Vick. Less his fault than hers, anyway. ‘Fancy a pauper having pity to spare for a crown prince.’

‘Pity costs nothing, does it?’

‘You might be surprised.’

‘I have seen many battles fought!’ Bayaz called as the last of the cheering faded. ‘Many battles won. But I have never been prouder of the victors. Never held higher hopes for their futures. We of older generations will do what we can. To advise. To inform. To give the benefit of our hard-won experience. But the future belongs to the young. With young people such as these …’ He spread his arms wide, one towards the man they called the Young Lion, the other towards the one they were starting to call the Young Lamb. ‘I feel the future could not be in safer hands.’

More applause, and more cheering, but there was grumbling, too, among the poor around Vick. Lord Isher had nudged his horse up close to Leo dan Brock, murmuring something under his breath, both of them frowning towards the royal box.

Trouble at both ends of the social scale. Trouble all over. Vick frowned at Prince Orso, then at that Northern girl with the hair like a bird’s nest blown from its tree. She was staring at her own hand with the oddest expression. From what Vick could tell, it was shaking. She scrambled drunkenly from her horse and took something on a thong around her neck and wedged it in her mouth.

‘What’s got into her?’ asked Tallow.

‘Couldn’t say.’

Like a tree chopped down, she toppled over backwards.

‘Rikke?’

She prised open one eye. A slit of sickening, stabbing brightness.

‘Are you all right?’ Orso was cradling her head with one hand and looking quite concerned.

She pushed the spit-wet dowel out of her mouth with her tongue and croaked the one word she could think of. ‘Fuck.’

‘There’s my girl!’ Isern squatted on her other side, necklace of runes and finger bones dangling, grinning that twisted grin that showed the hole in her teeth and offering no help at all. ‘What did you see?’

Rikke heaved one hand up to grip her head. Felt like if she didn’t hold her skull together it’d burst. Shapes still fizzed on the insides of her lids, like the glowing smears when you’ve looked at a candle in a black room.

‘I saw a white horse prancing at the top of a broken tower.’ Choking smoke, the stink of burning. ‘I saw a great door open but on the other side there was only an empty room.’ Empty shelves, nothing but dust. ‘I saw …’ She felt a fear creeping up on her then. ‘I saw an old chieftain dead.’ She pressed her hand to her left eye. Felt hot still. Burning hot.

‘Who was it?’

‘An old chieftain, dead, in a high hall lit with candles. Men gathered about the body, looking down. All of ’em wondering what they could get from it. Like they were dogs, and that dead old man was the meat.’ That fear grew worse and worse and Rikke’s eyes got wider and wider. ‘I have to go home.’

‘You think it was your da?’ asked Isern.

‘Who else could it be?’

Shivers was frowning hard, sun gleaming on his metal eye. ‘If it is … there’s no telling who’ll seize power in Uffrith.’

Rikke winced at the thumping in her head. ‘All shadows where their faces should’ve been. But I saw what I saw!’

‘You’re sure?’ asked Orso.

‘I’m sure.’ Rikke groaned as she pushed herself up onto one elbow. ‘I’ve got to go back to the North. And the sooner the …’ She realised everyone was looking at her. And everyone was a hell of a lot of people right then. She wrinkled her nose at an unpleasant smell. ‘Ah, by the dead …’

My Kind of Bastard

‘How’s the leg?’

Scale laughed, and slapped his nephew’s wounded thigh, and made him wince.

‘Better’n it was,’ said Stour as he stretched it out under the table.

‘You’re lucky, boy.’ Scale took another swig from his cup, ale leaking out into his beard. Clover would’ve thought a man who drank as much as he did would’ve got better at it, but the bastard couldn’t seem to stop spilling. ‘The Young Lion could’ve killed you.’

‘Aye.’ Stour frowned at the floor, still a trace of yellow bruises around his eyes. ‘I’d have killed him, if things had gone the other way.’

‘Daresay you would’ve.’ And Scale chuckled and beckoned for more ale. His old bastards had something smug about them now, and Stour’s young ones something grudging. When their master lost, they’d all lost a little themselves. A little pride, anyway. It’d been a long time since Clover had seen pride as aught but a handicap, yet some men still loved it more than gold.

‘The king seems oddly pleased about his champion’s defeat,’ muttered Wonderful, almost without moving her lips.

‘Aye,’ said Clover. ‘Maybe ’cause it gives him a chance to wag his finger and harp on the hubris of youth and go over all he’s learned in a long career of draining ale cups.’

‘Even though he was every bit as keen on a duel as Stour.’

‘That’s kings for you. The shit ideas are always someone else’s.’ Clover watched Stour rubbing at his hurt leg. Seemed more tame puppy than Great Wolf now. Thoughtful. Subdued, even. ‘Looks like defeat might’ve finally taught our king-in-waiting some lessons, mind you.’

‘Like it did you?’

‘Failure’s the best schoolmaster, they say.’

Wonderful nodded, looking out at the room from under her grey-flecked brows. ‘So the war’s over.’

‘Seems so,’ said Clover. ‘A lot of men dead, and nothing much changed.’

‘That’s war for you. Turns out best for the worst of us. No doubt we’ll have another presently.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘And in the meantime? Back to teaching sword-work?’

‘Can’t think of aught else I’m fit for that I can do sitting down. You?’