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

‘I’ll put it right,’ he said. ‘I’ll find work here.’

‘I know you will.’ She forced out a smile. Looked like it took a lot of effort, but she forced it out. ‘You’re a good man, Gunnar.’

He winced at that, felt the pain of tears at the back of his nose. ‘No more violence,’ he said, voice thick and throaty. ‘I promise, Liddy.’ He realised he’d clenched his fists, forced them to open. ‘From now on I’ll stay out of trouble.’

‘Gunnar,’ she murmured, soft and serious, ‘you should only make promises you know you can keep.’

A little sprinkle of dust came floating down onto their bed. Along the street at the foundry, the engines were starting up, making the whole room tremble.

Wasn’t until he got around the corner Broad even realised what he was queueing for.

Cadman’s Ales was printed in gilded paint above the sliding warehouse doors, the bang and clatter of work booming from inside. A brewery. He’d spent half his time in Styria drunk and the rest aiming to get drunk. He’d promised no trouble, and he knew that for him, every bottle had trouble at the bottom.

Still, temptation was never far away in Valbeck. Every other building had a tap-house or a jerry-shop or a still in it, licensed or otherwise, whores and thieves and beggars buzzing around them like flies at a midden, and if you couldn’t make it as far as next door to drown your misery, there were boys running the streets with barrels on their backs who’d bring the beer to you.

A brewery was a poor omen, far as Broad’s promise to stay clear of trouble was concerned. But he’d seen no good omens in Valbeck, and he needed work. So he pulled his coat closed and hunched his shoulders against the thin rain that fell black out of the murky sky like ink, and shuffled forward another half-step.

‘However early I get here, there’s always a queue,’ said a grey-faced, grey-haired old man in a coat worn through at the elbows.

‘More and more folk coming into Valbeck for the work,’ muttered one of the others.

‘Always more folk wanting work. Never enough to go around. Used to be I had a house o’ my own, up the valley near Hambernalt. You know it?’

‘Can’t say I do,’ muttered Broad, thinking of his own valley. The green trees in the breeze, the green grass soft around his ankles. He knew things were always better in your memory and the farm had been hard work for lean rewards, but it had been green. There was nothing green in Valbeck. Except the river, maybe, stained with great coloured smears from the dyeing works upstream.

‘Beautiful valley, it used to be,’ the old man was droning. ‘Good house, I had, in the woods there, by the river. Raised five boys in it. Used to be good money in coppicing, burning charcoal, you know. Then they started making charcoal cheap in a furnace upstream and the river got full of tar.’ He gave a long, helpless sniff. ‘Prices just kept falling. Then Lord bloody Barezin cleared the forest for more grazing land anyway.’

A big wagon clattered past, rattling wheels ripping muck out of the road and showering it across the queue, and men grumbled and shouted abuse at the driver and the driver grumbled and shouted abuse at the men, and they all shuffled forwards another half-step.

‘My boys went off to other things. One died in Styria. One got married down near Keln, I heard. I had to borrow and I lost the house. Beautiful valley, it used to be.’

‘Aye, well,’ muttered Broad, feeling too sorry for himself to much enjoy anyone else doing the same. ‘Used to be gets you nowhere.’

‘True enough,’ said the old man, right away making Broad wish he’d never spoken. ‘Why, I remember back when I was a lad—’

‘Shut your fucking hole, y’old dunce,’ snapped the man in front of Broad.

He was a big bastard with a star-shaped scar on his cheek and a piece out of his ear. A veteran, no doubt. The anger in his voice set Broad’s heart thumping. A tickle of excitement.

The old man stared. ‘I’m not wanting to cause no offence—’

‘That’s why you should shut your fucking hole.’

Just stay silent. Just stay out of it. He should’ve learned that lesson, shouldn’t he? Learned it a dozen times and more. He’d promised Liddy. Just hours since he promised her. No more trouble.

‘Leave him be,’ growled Broad.

‘What’d you say?’

Broad took his lenses off and slipped them into his coat pocket, the queue behind the man’s frowning face made a blur.

‘I get it,’ said Broad. ‘You’re disappointed. Don’t reckon any man here had life turn out just the way he hoped, do you?’

‘What d’you know about my hopes?’

Took everything he had not to smash this bastard’s skull. But he’d promised Liddy. So Broad just took a step forwards, so the spit from his bared teeth flecked the man’s scarred cheek.

‘I know you’ll find none of ’em facing this way.’ He lifted his fist. Turned his finger. ‘Now turn around ’fore I put your fucking head through the wall.’

The man’s scarred cheek twitched and, just for a moment, Broad thought he might fight. For one beautiful moment, he thought he could stop clinging on, and let go. The first time he’d felt free since he came back from Styria. Well, apart from when he smashed Lennart Seldom’s face in.

Then the man’s bloodshot eyes found Broad’s fist. The tattoo on the back of it. He grumbled something and turned around. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then he pulled his shabby collar up, and cut out of the line, and stalked away.

‘Thanks for that,’ said the old man, knob on the front of his scrawny throat bobbing. ‘Ain’t many folk left will do the decent thing.’

‘The decent thing.’ Broad winced as he worked his fingers open. Seemed the only time they didn’t hurt was when his fists were clenched. ‘Don’t even know what that is any more.’

He’d seen a lot of different men at the end of these queues, choosing who got work and who got nothing. Most had developed a liking for watching folk squirm. It had been the same with the officers in Styria. It’s a rare man who’s made better by a bit of power.

The foreman at the door of Cadman’s Ales looked like one of the better ones, though, sat under a little awning with a big ledger in front of him. Grey-haired and solid, every movement slow and precise, like he’d taken his time and thought out just the right way to do it.

‘My name’s Gunnar Bull,’ lied Broad. He was a bad liar, and got the feeling this man saw straight through him.

‘I’m Malmer.’ He gave Broad a careful look up and down. ‘Got any experience with breweries?’

‘Guess I’ve drunk a fair bit o’ their output down the years.’ Broad tried a grin, but Malmer didn’t look like joining him. ‘But no experience with making it, no.’ Malmer just gave a slow nod, like he was used to disappointment. ‘I’ll work hard, though.’ He’d had but two hours’ work that week, raking out stables. This was his third stop today, and he couldn’t go home empty-handed. ‘I’ll shovel coal, or I’ll sweep floors, or … well … whatever you want. I’ll work hard, I promise you that.’

Malmer gave a sad little smile. ‘Promises are cheap, friend.’

‘Shitting hell! Is that Sergeant Broad?’

A lean man with a sandy beard and a stained apron had come striding out of the brewery, hands on hips. Broad knew the face, but it took a while to riddle out where he’d seen it before and slot it into the world he lived in now. ‘Sarlby?’

‘This is Bull Broad!’ Sarlby grabbed Broad’s hand and yanked it like he was trying to get water from a stiff pump. ‘Remember, Malmer, I told you all about him! Fought with him in Styria! Behind him, anyway, weren’t such a good idea to be in front.’