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

‘Master Arinhorm looks rather angry,’ murmured Curnsbick as they moved away through the crowd. ‘You might find, in the long run, that a little generosity can repay itself five-fold. Goodwill can be the best of investments—’

She dismissed his nonsense with a fond pat of his hand. ‘Generosity and goodwill sit well on you but they simply do not go with my complexion at all. A certain number of bitter enemies are an essential accessory for a lady of fashion.’

‘And it may be that he has procured an investor after all.’

‘Damn it.’ He was already deep in conversation with Selest dan Heugen. ‘Is she picking through my offcuts?’

‘Do you know, I think she might be.’

‘Like a bitch at the butcher’s bins.’

‘She seems quite popular with the gentlemen of the Society.’ Indeed, one could almost see the grey heads turning as she slipped through the room on Arinhorm’s arm.

‘Anything with a quim is popular with them,’ muttered Savine.

‘Ouch. She reminds me of a younger you.’

‘Younger me was poison.’

‘Younger you was nectar . Almost as much so as older you. But I’ve heard it said that imitation is the most honest tribute. We have a whole theatre full of old fools trying to do a Curnsbick, after all. Do I complain?’

‘Whenever you’re not boasting.’

‘I’ve been boasting continuously for so long it hadn’t come up.’ And Curnsbick gave her the mildest of grins. ‘The Circle of the World is wide, Savine. You can allow someone else to occupy one little plot of it.’

‘I suppose so,’ she grudgingly admitted, putting the distasteful union of Arinhorm and Heugen from her mind. ‘As long as they’re paying me rent.’

But Curnsbick was no longer listening. The eager chatter was falling silent, the crowd parting like soil before the plough. A man strode through the throng, his facial hair meticulously barbered and lavishly waxed, his crimson uniform festooned with gold braid.

‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Curnsbick, gripping her wrist, ‘it’s the bloody king!’

Whatever the criticisms of His Majesty – and there were many, regularly circulated in ever more scurrilous pamphlets – no one could have denied that King Jezal always looked the part. He chuckled, slapped arms, shook hands, traded jokes, a beacon of slightly absent good humour. A dozen fully armoured Knights of the Body clattered after him, and at least two score clerks, officers, servants, attendants and hangers-on after them, chestfuls of unearned medals glittering beneath the thousand dancing candle flames above.

‘Master Curnsbick.’ His Majesty ushered the great inventor up from his knee. ‘So sorry I’m late. This and that at the palace, you know. Management of the realm. So much to take care of.’

‘Your Majesty,’ frothed Curnsbick, ‘the Solar Society is illuminated by your presence. I regret that we had to begin the addresses without you—’

‘No, no! Progress waits for no one, eh, Curnsbick? Not even kings.’

‘Especially not kings, Your Majesty,’ said Savine, sinking into an even deeper curtsy. One of the royal party issued a choked splutter at her insolence, but no risk, no profit.

Curnsbick held out his hand to present her. ‘And this is—’

‘Savine dan Glokta, of course,’ said the king. ‘It makes one very proud, to see one’s subjects showing such … enterprise and determination.’ He gave a strange little shake of his fist. So strong a gesture, so weakly delivered. ‘I’ve always admired people who … make things.’

Savine sank lower still. She had long ago become used to men staring at her. Had learned to tolerate it, to deflect it gracefully, to turn it to her advantage. But the look the king was giving her was not the usual kind. There was something awfully sad behind his blandly handsome grin.

‘Your Majesty is far too kind,’ she said.

‘Not kind enough.’ She wondered if he had somehow found out about her and his son. Had Orso let something slip? ‘With such young women to lead the way, the Union’s future looks bright indeed.’

Fortunately, there was a commotion further down the hall. A knight herald pushed through the crowd, winged helmet tucked under one arm. ‘Your Majesty, I have news.’

The king looked mildly annoyed. ‘That’s your job, isn’t it? Could you be more specific?’

‘News … from the North.’ He leaned in to whisper, and the king’s fixed smile sagged.

‘My apologies, Lady Savine. My apologies, everyone! I am needed at the Agriont.’ The gilt edge of His Majesty’s cloak snapped as he spun on one highly polished heel, his retinue crowding after like a gaggle of self-important ducklings behind their mother, not a smile among them.

Curnsbick puffed out his cheeks. ‘Do you think we could call ourselves endorsed by His Majesty after a visit of half a minute?’

‘A visit’s a visit,’ muttered Savine. The chatter was already louder than ever, people flocking towards the doors, jostling one another in their haste to be first to learn the news. And to profit by it. ‘Find out what that knight herald had to say,’ she murmured to Zuri. ‘Oh, and make a note – I would like Kaspar dan Arinhorm to have troubles with his business in Angland.’

Zuri slipped her pencil from behind her ear. ‘Rumours, regulations, or just no one answering his letters?’

‘Let’s start with a bit of each and see how we go.’

Savine had not made society a snakepit. She was simply determined to slither to the top of it and stay there. If that meant being the most venomous reptile in Adua, so be it.

Fencing with Father

‘Wake up, Your Highness.’ And there was the hideous scraping of curtains being flung wide.

Orso forced one eye open a slit, holding up a hand to block the savage glare. ‘I thought I said you shouldn’t call me that.’ He lifted his head, but it began to throb in a most unpleasing manner, so he let it drop. ‘And how dare you presume to wake the heir to the throne?’

‘I thought you said I shouldn’t call you that?’

‘I’m being inconsistent. The Crown Prince of the Union—

‘And Talins, theoretically.’

‘—can be as inconsistent as he damn well pleases.’ Orso’s fumbling hand closed about the handle of a jug and he lifted it and took a swig, realised too late there was stale ale in it rather than water, and spat it over the wall in a mist.

‘Your Highness will have to be inconsistent while dressing,’ said Tunny. ‘There’s news.’

Orso looked for water, couldn’t see any, and swigged down the dregs of the ale after all. ‘Don’t tell me that blonde from yesterday was carrying the cock-rot.’ He tossed the jug rolling across the floor and sagged back into bed. ‘The last thing I need is another dose—’

‘Scale Ironhand and his Northmen have invaded the Protectorate. They’ve burned Uffrith.’

‘Pfft.’ Orso thought about grabbing a shoe and throwing it at Tunny but decided he couldn’t be arsed, so he rolled over and cuddled up to that girl, what’s-her-name, pressing his half-hard cock into the small of her back where it was warm and making her give a semi-conscious mew of upset. ‘That isn’t funny.’

‘You’re damn right it isn’t. Lady Governor Finree dan Brock is fighting a brave rearguard action along with the Dogman and her son Leo, the big, bold Young Lion, but they’re giving ground before the terror of the Northmen and their fearsome champion Stour Nightfall, the Great Wolf, who’s sworn to drive the damn Southerners out of Angland.’ There was a brief silence. ‘We’re the damn Southerners, in case you’re wondering.’

Orso managed to get both eyes open at once. ‘You’re not joking?’