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

Watching the regulars dance for her made a nice change, she had to admit, and she wasn’t the least bit arsed if the bank turned to ashes, but there was a worry looming about who was going to pay for her broken door. And a bigger worry looming behind that one. If they burned all the regulars, who’d pay for anything tomorrow?

‘The Great Change!’ The squinty bastard caught Mally by the arm, painfully tight, almost dragged her over. Funny how, whenever men talked about freedom, they never really meant for the women. ‘What a day, eh?’ he shrieked in her face, blasting her with foul breath.

‘Aye,’ she said, smiling as she twisted her arm free. ‘The Great Change.’

Was it a change for the better, though? That was her concern. Maybe she’d wake tomorrow and the world would suddenly have turned sane, and someone would’ve fixed her broken lock, too. She had her considerable doubts. But what could she do but smile through it and hope for the best? Least at that she had plenty of practice.

She saw Sparks watching her. Felt like she had to do something cruel, show she was one of them. The naked lawyer blundered past and she stuck out a boot and tripped him. He tumbled over, rolling in the dirt, and she pointed at him and howled with forced laughter.

She didn’t like it any, but a choice between getting hurt and doing the hurting weren’t no choice at all. She’d sat at the shitty end o’ that see-saw often enough.

‘Up, pig!’ someone snarled.

Randock staggered to his feet, clutching at his side, trying to hold up a weak hand and dance at the same time. He’d never been much of a dancer. Even with his clothes on. And he was exhausted now, sweating like a hog in spite of his nakedness, the old dyspepsia burning up his throat. But dyspepsia was the least of his worries.

That girl Mally had tripped him, he thought. Now she was pointing, screeching with laughter. He could not understand it. He had helped her, often. Financial assistance, from the good of his heart. That was why he kept coming here. To help these poor girls, driven into lives of debauchery by the harsh times. If they wished to express their natural gratitude, he would not demean them by refusing. He had a strong social conscience. And this was how they repaid him, the ingrate bitches. Fucking filthy whores, the lot of them!

He lumbered past the hill of documents they were heaping up around that poor fellow in the cheap suit, tied to a stake like some heretic by fanatics in the savage South. Perhaps there were some of Randock’s cases in the pyre, ready to be sent up in smoke. The waste of it. The folly! He had given his life to the law. More charity, on his part. He had sweated on behalf of his clients. So conscientious! You’re in good hands with Randock! He had built a reputation on it. Thus the thriving partnership of Zalev, Randock and Crun. Zalev died some years ago, of course, taken by the grip in that cold winter, but Randock wasn’t paying for a new sign just on his account, and Crun was away doing patents. Lot of money in patents these days.

With paper and ink one could level mountains, he had always said, if given the time and appropriate connections about the Courthouse. Nothing was stronger than the law! Now it seemed that fire was stronger still. Law alone, without enforcement, is just breath. He flinched as part of the bank’s roof sagged inwards, flames spurting up, sparks whirling. Never cross Valint and Balk, Zalev had told him the day he entered the law. Never. By the Fates, if they with all their wealth and secrets and power could be burned, what was safe? The fire was already spreading towards the narrow building where his own offices were located.

He had spent his life’s work on that firm. Built it up with his own hands. Well, his and Zalev’s and Crun’s, he supposed, but mostly his, since Zalev had died and Crun was concentrating on patents.

He lurched to a halt, wheezing, groaning, bending over with hands on knees as the horrible music sawed on, and the whores pointed and laughed and drank. The injustice! He came here to help these girls. He was their benefactor. Their patron. A father figure! Well, no, more a kindly uncle. He was loved in this neighbourhood. And now they mocked him while he blundered about naked. Like a sad bear he once saw with a travelling show.

Still, it could have been worse. It could have been him tied to the stake with all that legal kindling about his ankles. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to swallow his dyspepsia.

Someone hit him and he squealed in agony. A line of fire across his bare buttocks.

‘Please!’ he wheezed, holding up that desperate hand. ‘Please!’

A little fellow with a nasty squint leered at him, held up a coachman’s whip.

‘Dance, you fat shit!’ he snarled. ‘Or you’ll be the one in the fire!’

Randock danced.

‘What a day!’ screamed Moth, ’cause the Great Change had finally come and everything was turned upside down, and the folk who’d been on the bottom all their lives were suddenly on top, the scum made lords, and all the things he’d wanted but knew he’d never get he could just reach out and take. Who’d stop him? ‘What a day !’

And he lashed at the lawyer again with his whip and caught him across the thighs, made him stagger, fall on his knees, the fat bastard. Fat bastard who’d barely even looked sideways at him when he’d asked for a coin a few days before. Like he was an insect. Who was the insect now, eh? He knew ’em all. He saw ’em, even if they didn’t see him. He had a tally of all the slights they’d given him and today was the day to pay the bill.

‘Dance, you fat shit!’ And he kicked the lawyer in the jaw as he tried to stagger up and knocked him on his back, threw the whip down and snatched up a hammer in both hands, started beating at the statue again.

‘Fuck yourself!’ he snarled at it. Some king, some big man. ‘Not so big now!’ He smashed a bit of the inscription away. He’d no idea what it said. There’d be no need for letters after the Great Change.

‘Give me some o’ that!’ Ripping a bottle from Framer’s hand while he was in the middle of trying to drink and making him spill spirits all over that stupid cap of his.

‘You bastard,’ said Framer, wiping his face, but Moth just laughed and took another swig. He saw a little girl in a doorway, watching at him. A little brown girl with great dark eyes, tear tracks glistening on her face.

He shoved the bottle in the air and laughed. ‘What a day !’

Hessel turned away from the madness in the square. It scared her too much. She shuffled back into the doorway, where her father was lying.

‘Father,’ she whispered, tugging at his arm. ‘Please wake up!’

He wobbled with her shaking, but he did not wake. One of his eyes was a little open, just a slit of white showing. But he did not wake.

Once when they were out walking in the public gardens in Bizurt, where the Emperor Solkun was said to have planted ten thousand palms, her father had told her it was always wise to carry a cloth, to keep oneself clean and presentable. She pulled hers out now, and licked it, and tried to dab the blood from his forehead, but the more she dabbed, the more there was. The cloth turned red with it. His grey hair turned black with it.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered as she dabbed, not sure if she was swearing or praying. In spite of the priests’ long efforts at instruction, she had never quite been able to tell the difference. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’

He had said things would be better here. Dawah was not safe any more. First, the emperor’s soldiers had been driven out of the town, and there was chaos, and that had been very bad. Then the Eaters had come, to bring back order, and that had been far worse. She had seen one of them, in the main street, at sunset. A terrible light had shone from it. She still saw it, in her dreams, the black eyes, and the empty smile, and the blood on its fine robes. So they had fled from Dawah. Her father had said things would be better here.