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

‘Are you expecting trouble in Valbeck?’ she asked.

‘If I was,’ said Vick, ‘I imagine your father would’ve told you not to come.’

‘He did. I ignored him. And I hardly think he would be sending you if there was not at least a little trouble there. Am I right?’

Vick did not even blink. There really was no rattling the woman. ‘Are you expecting trouble?’ she asked, answering a question with another.

‘I find it’s always wise to expect it. I own a share in a textile mill in the city.’

‘Among other things.’

‘Among other things. I have a partner there, one Colonel Vallimir.’

‘Once commander of the King’s Own First Regiment. Too inflexible to work under Mitterick. Is he flexible enough to work under you?’

Apparently, Vick not only knew her own business, but everybody else’s. ‘Where would be the fun in bending flexible people to your whims?’ asked Savine. ‘And partners are useful. Someone to oversee operations. Someone to share the risks.’

‘Someone to take the blame.’

‘You should go into business.’

‘Not sure I’m ruthless enough. I’ll stick with the Inquisition.’

Savine rewarded that with her exhaustively practised spontaneous laugh. ‘The mill was losing money. Troubles with the workers, I expect. I always used to say that textiles are for wearing, not investing in.’ She flicked an infinitesimal speck of dust from the embroidered cuff of her travelling jacket. ‘There are lots of ex-soldiers among the weavers, violent men prone to grudges. When the guilds were broken up, they were left rudderless, injured in their pockets and their pride.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘The usual. I realised how much money was to be made. And now, of a sudden, I find my mill is in profit.’

‘Which is a wonderful thing, of course,’ said Lisbit, who never had anything worth saying but could never stop saying it anyway, and to make matters worse was saying it in an ever more affected accent since she was made temporary companion. At this rate, Savine would have throttled her before they reached Valbeck, let alone by the time Zuri returned from the South.

‘Which is a wonderful thing,’ said Savine. ‘But profits so fast and so large make me … suspicious.’

‘You should go into the Inquisition.’

‘In this corset? I hardly think so.’

Now Teufel smiled. Just a little curl at the corner of her mouth. Considered, like every expression of hers. As though she had been over her budget and decided she could afford one.

‘You don’t give much away, do you?’ said Savine.

That smile curled up a little more. ‘Comes from not having much, maybe.’

It was not mockery, exactly. They simply both knew that Teufel had seen things, suffered things, overcome things that Savine would never have to. Would never dare to. She needed no wigs or powder to hide behind. She sat safe in the certainty that she was carved from fire-toughened wood, and could break Savine in half with those veined coal miner’s hands if she pleased.

Savine found she was shifting a little to hide her sword. She wished she had not worn it. How absurd an affectation it seemed, sitting opposite someone who cut people for a living.

Vick sat with her leg stretched out. The old niggle in her hip was acting up, and every bump in the road sent a jolt through the carriage and a jab of pain from her knee right to her back, but she wasn’t about to squirm for a comfortable position she knew she’d never find.

Savine dan Glokta looked serenely comfortable, one leg carelessly crossed over the other, the shiny toe of one immaculate boot showing beneath the embroidered hem of a dress that probably cost more than the carriage, and the carriage was an expensive one. Vick had never seen a woman who took more trouble about her appearance, and she’d once spent a horrible half-hour lurking at the back of one of Queen Terez’s functions.

Not a hair of Savine’s eyebrows, not a thread of her clothes, not a speck of her powder was out of place, even in the heat. All so porcelain-perfect it was a surprise whenever she moved, talked, breathed like ordinary humans. She wore a ridiculous little sword with jewels on the hilt. She wore a tiny, pointless hat fastened with a crystal pin. She fluttered a fan made from fillets of iridescent seashell gracefully back and forth, back and forth. She had a nest of golden braids which only a dunce could’ve imagined was her real hair. Or anyone’s real hair. Had there been any justice in the world, she would’ve looked absurd. But Vick knew well there was no justice, and she looked spectacular.

Might Vick have looked like that herself, if her father hadn’t been taken by the Inquisition? If her family hadn’t been sent to Angland along with him? Might she have been sitting there, in a wig that took a month to weave, tapping the toe of those wonderful, horrible boots, as smugly satisfied with herself as a cat by the kitchen fire?

Vick learned long ago that might have is a game with no winners. Few games do have winners, in the end.

‘Do you have those sweets, Lisbit?’ asked Savine.

Lisbit, who was only slightly less well groomed than her mistress, slipped a polished box from her travelling bag. Perfume wafted out as she revealed no more than a dozen little sugared fruits, nestling in crushed paper. Vick’s mouth flooded with spit. When you’ve starved, food comes to touch a special place, and you can never quite go back.

‘Can I tempt you?’ murmured Savine.

Vick glanced from her overpriced sweets to her overpriced smile. In the camps, everything had a cost, and usually with painful interest, too. Looking into Savine dan Glokta’s eyes, hard and shiny as the eyes of an expensive doll, Vick doubted you could find a more merciless creditor if you scoured the whole of Angland.

Owing one Glokta was far too many. ‘Not for me.’

‘I entirely understand. Can’t eat them myself.’ Savine sighed as she arched her back, pushing one hand into her impossibly slender side. ‘I’m like a weight of sausage meat squeezed into a half-weight skin already.’

It wasn’t mockery, exactly. They just both knew that Savine had more manners, money and beauty in one quim hair than Vick could’ve dug from her whole acquaintance. She sat safe on invisible cushions of power and privilege, knowing she could buy and sell Vick on a whim.

Savine offered the box to Tallow. ‘How about you, young man?’

A blotchy flush spread across his cheeks. As if a goddess had floated from the heavens to offer him eternal life. ‘I …’ He glanced at Vick. ‘Can I take one?’

‘If Lady Savine says you can take one, you can take one.’

Savine smiled wider than ever. ‘You can take one.’

He reached out with a trembling hand, prised one from the fancy paper, then sat staring at it.

‘That sweet probably cost more than your shoes,’ said Vick.

Tallow lifted up one dirty boot, its creased tongue hanging out like a thirsty dog’s. ‘They were free. Got ’em off a dead man.’ And he stuffed the sweet in his mouth. ‘Oh.’ His eyes went even wider. ‘Oh.’ He closed them, and chewed, and melted into his seat.

‘Good?’ asked Lisbit.

‘Like sunshine,’ he mumbled.

‘You really should say thank you.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Savine hid it well, but Vick noticed the twitch of annoyance on her face. She offered the box again. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Not for me,’ said Vick. ‘But you’re very kind.’

‘I doubt everyone would agree.’

‘If everyone agreed, I’d be out of a job.’ Vick forced herself not to wince as she drew in her outstretched leg and slid the window all the way down. ‘Pull up!’ she called to the driver. ‘We’ll go on foot from here.’