A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Might be you should be careful what lessons you learn from Isern-i-Phail.”

  “She wants what’s best for me. What’s best for the North.”

  Her father gave a sad smile at that. “Believe it or not, we all want what’s best. The root o’ the world’s ills is that no one can agree on what it is.”

  “She says you have to make of your heart a stone.”

  “Rikke.” And he laid his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me, now. I’ve known a lot of men did that down the years. Men who had plenty in ’em to admire. Men who turned their hearts hard so they could lead, so they could win, so they could rule. Did ’em no good in the end, nor anyone around ’em.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I like your heart how it is. Might be if there were a few more like it, the North’d be a better place.”

  “You reckon?” she muttered, far from convinced.

  “You’ve got bones, Rikke, and you’ve got brains. You like to hide it. Even from yourself, maybe.” He looked out at the room, and the shouting men that filled it. “I reckon they’ll need your bones and your brains, when all this is over. But they’ll need your heart, too. When I’m gone.”

  Rikke swallowed. Turned her fear into a joke, as usual. “Where you going, the shit-pit?”

  “Shit-pit first. Then my blanket. Don’t get too drunk, eh?” He leaned close to murmur in her ear. “Be a shame to make o’ your heart a wineskin, either.”

  She frowned as she watched him go. He’d always been thin, but wiry-strong like a bent bow. Now he looked crooked, brittle. She caught herself wondering how long he had left. Wondering what would become of her when he was gone. What would become of them all. If they were counting on her bones and her brains, they were in bigger trouble than she’d thought.

  Shivers sat frowning into the room, bit of a space around him. He had a reputation made most folk keep their distance, even drunk. There were too many bad men in the North and Caul Shivers, by most accounts, was one of the very worst. Bad men are a terrible curse, no doubt, right up until you’re in bad trouble and there’s one on your side. Then they’re the best thing ever.

  “Hey, hey, Shivers!” She slapped him on the shoulder and nearly missed. Lucky thing it was a big shoulder. “Not sure you’re really getting this whole feast thing. We are rejoicing in my heroic return. You’re meant to smile.” She looked at his ruined face, the lid sagging around his metal eye and the great burn across his cheek. “You can smile, can’t you?”

  He looked at her hand on his shoulder, then up at her, and didn’t smile at all. “Why were you never scared of me?”

  “You just never seemed all that scary. Always found your eye sort of pretty. Shiny.” Rikke patted his scarred cheek. “You always just seemed… lost. Like you lost yourself and didn’t know where to look.” She put her hand on his chest. “But you’re in there, still. You’re in there.”

  He looked as shocked as if she’d slapped him, and there was a gleam of damp in his real eye, or maybe it was just her own sight that was smeary, as Caul Shivers wasn’t really known as a big weeper, except when his bad eye dribbled, which was a different thing.

  “Lot o’ teary old men about today,” she muttered, pushing herself away from the table. “I need another drink.” Probably another drink wasn’t a good idea, but for some reason she’d always found bad ideas the more appealling kind. She was sloshing ale into her cup, tongue pressed into the dent in her lip where the chagga usually sat with the effort of not spilling, when she caught sight of Leo dan Brock.

  He usually had a few of his friends with him, and the one with all the teeth wasn’t far away, grinning at a serving woman like his smile was a gift she was lucky to get, but it looked like the rest had been scared off by his mother. To be fair, Lady Finree was a pretty fearsome woman, and she was delivering a pretty fearsome lecture to her son, if her wagging finger and his screwed-up face were a guide.

  “… but I shan’t cramp you any longer,” Rikke heard her say as she came closer. “Someone has to manage this retreat, after all.”

  Leo glared daggers at his mother as she strode away, then tossed his head back and drained his cup, then threw the cup across the rubbish-strewn table and started drinking straight from the jug, little rivulets running down his hard-working throat.

  “I sometimes think more ale gets spilled than drunk at these things,” said Rikke in the Union tongue, both hands on the table beside him with her shoulders up around her ears.

  He lowered the jug and peered at her over the rim, answered in Northern. “If it isn’t the Dogman’s missing daughter. Glad to be back?”

  “I’d prefer to be back in Uffrith, but Uffrith’s burned, and the people scattered. The lucky ones, anyway. Always thought I hated the place, but now it’s gone I miss it…” She had to swallow another lump of sadness. “Still, this is an awful lot better’n being hunted through a freezing forest by a crowd of horrible cunts, so there’s that. Lot o’ bastards in the North, but that Stour Nightfall.” And she bared her teeth at a sudden stab of hate. “By the dead, he’s a bastard for the songs.”

  “You Northmen love to make songs about bastards.”

  “I’m a Northwoman,” she said, poking at her chest with a thumb.

  “I noticed,” he said, raising his brows at it. Her thumb, not her chest. Though maybe he was taking a sly look at that, too. She somewhat hoped so but was too drunk to tell. Seemed every word between them had an edge to it. A little danger, like the jabs in a duel. A little thrill, like each breath was a gamble.

  “Not easy,” she grunted, dropping on the empty stool where his mother had been sitting, thumping her boot down on the table and rocking carelessly back. “Being in the shadow of a famous parent.”

  “No. I miss my father.” Leo frowned into his ale-jug. “Three years, he’s been gone. Still feels like yesterday. Didn’t get nearly so much of my mother’s attention when he was alive.”

  “You should be glad of your mother’s attention. Never knew mine.”

  “I’ll be lord governor soon,” said Leo, trying and largely failing to sound lord governor-ish, though it was a failure Rikke found endearing. She was finding everything about him endearing right then. Specially his collarbones, for some reason. Strong, bold collarbones, he had, with a hard dimple between she reckoned her nose would nuzzle into just right. “The king’ll send an edict, and I’ll be able to do whatever I want.”

  Rikke opened her eyes very wide. “So… you only have to do what your mama tells you till a man with a golden hat gives you permission?” She puffed out her cheeks. “That’s impressive. That is really quite fucking something.”

  He’d been frowning at first, but she was pleased to see it crumble into a sheepish smile. “You’re right. I’m being a prick.”

  She was thinking that sometimes a prick is the very thing you need, but she just about stopped herself saying it. A girl should maintain some mystery, even when drunk.

  Leo leaned close and she felt a guilty flush of heat on the side facing him, like he was made of hot coal and she was sitting too close to the fire. “They say you were raised by witches.”

  Rikke snorted as she glanced over at Isern-i-Phail. “Bitches, maybe.”

  “They say you’ve got the Long Eye.”

  She took the chance to lean a bit closer, turning her left eye towards him. “That’s right.” Their faces couldn’t have been more than a few inches apart, and the space between felt hot as an open oven. “I can see your future.”

  “What’s there?” Doubt, and laughter, and curiosity in his voice, and did she catch just a husky hint of desire as well? By the dead, she hoped so.

  “Trouble with seeing the future is you don’t want to spoil the surprise.” She stood up, nearly tripping over her own stool, but steadying herself masterfully by clutching at the edge of the table. “I’ll show you.”

  She caught him by the arm, started trying to drag him up, but got distracted halfway and ended up just thoughtfully feeling it. All hard
in his sleeve. Like it was made of wood.

  “That’s a lot of arm,” she murmured, and pulled him towards the big barn doors, open wide now men were filtering off to their tents and their bedrolls. Leo’s cautious friend, Jurand or whatever, was watching them from a place near the wall with this disapproving expression, but she couldn’t be arsed to be disapproved of right then. Isern-i-Phail was stood next to Shivers, her bare, bandaged leg propped up on a stool.

  “That is a leg.” Isern gestured at it proudly, sinews standing from her white thigh. “That, d’you see, is all a leg should be and more.”

  Shivers gave the leg in question a careful examination. “No doubt.”

  “The other one,” said Isern, “is even better.”

  Shivers’ eyes, or his eye, at any rate, shifted from Isern’s leg to her face. “You don’t say?”

  “I do.” She leaned down towards him. “And as for what’s betwixt the two…”

  “Excuse us,” said Rikke, slipping past and dragging Leo after, both trying to stifle their giggles. The night air was like a slap after the warmth inside, and it pinched her nose and made her head spin. Fires pricked at the night, hint of tents in the darkness, snatch of someone singing some old song about some dead hero. She led Leo by the elbow, heading nowhere, both of them laughing whenever they took a wobble.

  He grabbed at her shoulder. “Where are you taking—” And he grunted as she shoved him back against a crumbling wall, pushed her fingers into his hair and pulled him towards her. She held him there, their faces just a few finger-breadths apart. She dragged the moment out, his hot, eager, ale-smelling breath tickling at her cheek. She dragged the moment out, distant firelight gleaming in the corners of his eyes. She dragged the moment out, getting closer, getting closer, until he was pushing his smiling lips towards her and she brushed them with hers, one way, then the other.

  Then they were kissing, hungry, messy, lips sucking and teeth scraping and tongues lapping and Rikke reflected that she was quite an excellent kisser even if she did say so herself and he wasn’t at all bad either. No point pecking away like a sparrow at the seed. You’ve got to get stuck in. They broke apart to catch their breath and he swayed a bit and wiped his mouth, his eyes darting all over her face in a slightly flustered, slightly excited, slightly drunk sort of way that made her feel flustered and excited and drunk as well. Then he took a long breath and blew it out.

  “So… where’s this surprise, then?”

  She grinned. “You bastard.” A rickety door stood with a crack of darkness showing and she shouldered it wobbling open and bundled him through. He tripped over his own feet and went tottering, a thud as he fell, then silence.

  “Leo?” she hissed, shuffling forward. It was close to pitch-black, her hand out and feeling for him. Then she felt her wrist caught and she yelped as she was dragged down, fell into something soft, a heap of straw, smelling of earth and animals and rot, but Rikke had never been all that picky and she was feeling even less picky than usual right then. Picky Rikke. She gave a little snort of laughter as Leo slid on top of her, kissing her again, making eager little grunts in his throat that made her grunt back, his mouth hot in the darkness.

  One of his hands slipped under her shirt, up her waist, up her ribs, and she grabbed his wrist.

  “Wait!” she hissed.

  He froze. “What?” Silence, and she could hear his quick breath over the sound of her own thudding heartbeat. “You all right?”

  “Shouldn’t we… get your mother’s permission first?”

  She saw the faint gleam of his teeth as he smiled. “You bastard.”

  “Or maybe His Majesty’s? A royal edict probably overrules a lady governor—”

  “You’re right,” he said propping himself up. “I’ll send a message to Adua. They’ll want to discuss it in the Closed Council, but we should get a knight herald back with an answer before—”

  “Not sure I’ll be this drunk by then,” she said, already wriggling out of her trousers. Before she got them past her hips, her hand slipped and she flopped over and got a mouthful of straw, hissed and spat, giggled and burped, and they were kissing again, both her hands on his face, his jaw sharp and the stubbled skin rough under her fingertips.

  His hand slipped down between her thighs and she tried to open her legs but was all tangled with her belt, straw prickling her arse as she pushed herself against him, rubbing, rubbing, her tongue in his mouth and his breath fast and sounding like he was smiling. She was smiling, too, smiling right to the corners of her face, and this surely beat being chased through the woods when it came to entertainment.

  Didn’t need the Long Eye to see where things were going now. Nothing like being wanted, is there? Wanted by someone you want. Always seems like magic, that something can feel so good but cost nothing.

  She rolled over on top of him, partly thinking she’d take charge, partly quite annoyed by the straw in her arse. Managed to work her trousers down around her ankles so she was straddling him, started wrestling with his belt but couldn’t see a thing and the darkness was all spinning and she’d half a thought she might fall over even though she was only kneeling up and in hay too and her fingers were all clumsy and it was like trying to unpick stitching with gloves on.

  “Fuck,” she hissed. “Your mother put a lock on this? Where’s the buckle?”

  “Usual place,” he whispered, and his hot breath tickled her ear and gave her a funny shudder. “Where else would it be?” And there was a faint jingle as he eased it open and she pushed her hand down inside.

  “Oh,” she said, stupidly. They always surprised her, somehow, cocks. Strange bloody piece of anatomy. Still, she knew her way around one, even if she did say so herself. No point flicking away like you’re scared of it. You’ve got to get stuck in.

  “Ah!” And he jerked up from the straw. “Gently.”

  “Sorry.” Maybe she was a little rusty after all and the shed surely felt like it was spinning now, spinning like a boat going down a whirlpool, but a decidedly pleasant whirlpool, warm and sticky and smelling of animals, and his hand was busy between her spread legs, not quite in the right spot but close enough, and she shifted her hips until it was in the right spot and started grunting in his ear, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Shit,” he whispered in the blackness, fumbling at her, voice on the edge of laughter. “Where’s your…”

  “Usual place,” she hissed back at him, spitting in her hand, catching hold of his cock and wriggling closer. “Where else would it be?”

  The Lion and the Wolf

  If anyone asked, he’d always say he loved the ladies. The chase. The conquest. The bawdy jokes. But the truth was, Leo had never been comfortable around women. Men made sense. Slapped backs and firm shakes and blunt talk and wrestling. But women were a bloody mystery. He never quite knew what to make of their chatter and their feelings and their strange, soft bodies. Tits. Men talked a lot about tits. So Leo did, too. Nudge in the ribs, look at the cargo she’s carrying. But if he was entirely honest, he didn’t really understand the appeal. To Leo, tits were just… there. He’d get the job done in bed, of course. He’d lead the bloody charge! No problems in that department. But some of the most awkward moments of his life had been mornings-after.

  He reached for his trousers, picked some straw out of them, painstakingly pulled them on, wincing as his belt-buckle clinked. He fished up his shirt and his boots, took a step towards the chink of light down the edge of the door, and looked back.

  Rikke lay in the hay, arms flung heedlessly wide, gold ring through her nose gleaming with the morning light, tangled mass of chains and runes and talismans shifting as she breathed, a stray strand of hair across her face. In spite of his headache, he found he was smiling.

  Leo had never been comfortable around women. But perhaps his problem had been finding the right one. Rikke was nothing like the ladies his mother would manoeuvre into his path in Ostenhorm. They always seemed to say one thing
but mean another, like talking was a game you won by making the other player totally confused. Rikke had known him for years. There was no need for fumbling small talk. And every moment with her felt like an adventure. She could kidnap a conversation and in a breath carry it off into strange territory. You never knew where you’d end up, but it was always honest.

  He tossed his boots away and slipped down beside her again. He lifted his hand, paused a moment then, grinning all the while, gently pushed that strand of hair off her face. Her eyes didn’t open, but her mouth curled into a smile. “Decided not to slink away after all?”

  “Realised there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

  It gave him an odd little shiver when she opened those big grey eyes and looked at him. “Fancy another go around, eh?” And she stretched out, arms over her head, wriggling back into the straw.

  “No word from the king yet,” he said, leaning close to kiss her.

  She pulled her chin away from him. “And the lady governor?”

  “Nothing in writing,” he murmured, “so I’m taking it they approve.” Her breath was sour, her lips scummy at the corners, and he didn’t care.

  She slid a hand into his hair, gripped him hard and kissed him deep. Hungry, tonguey kisses that left nothing to the imagination. She rolled him over, getting up onto one elbow, biting at her lip as she started undoing his belt and he squirmed back into the hay, breath coming fast again, headache forgotten—

  She stopped, frowning. Pushed herself up to sitting, wrinkling her nose. “Can you smell that?”

  “They keep animals in here.”

  “No. Smells sweet. Smells like…” Rikke sniffed, wafting air at her nose. Her little finger was twitching. “Oh no.” Her face fell as she stared at it. “Always the worst times.” All her fingers were twitching now. “Get Isern-i-Phail!” And she dropped back in the straw, her whole arm shaking.

  “What?”

  “Get Isern!” Rikke grabbed the dowel on its thong around her neck and bit down hard on it. Next moment, she arched back like a full-drawn bow. She made a great, long, hollow wheeze as if all the breath was being squeezed out of her. Then she dropped, hay flying as she writhed, muscles madly jerking, kicking heels hacking at the dirt floor.