A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  It seemed they did. They began to retreat. The one who’d worn the hat gave a faint gurgle. One of them dragged him up, head lolling, his face a mass of black blood.

  “Aye!” shouted the stringy man, lowering his flatbow as they disappeared into the sweltering night. “And don’t come back!” He wiped his sweaty forehead with his tattooed hand as his companion clambered back onto the barricade. “Damn it, Bull, this wasn’t part o’ the plan.”

  Bull was an apt name for the big man. He frowned at Savine, and she cringed away until her back hit a wall. “Well,” he said, wincing as he rubbed at his knuckles, “you know what happens to plans when the fighting starts.”

  “Fucking Burners!” snarled the bowman, loosening his string and slipping out the bolt with a practised air. “Bastards have gone mad. Just want to burn everything!”

  “That’s why they call ’em Burners, Sarlby.” There was a woman there, too. A girl with a tough, bony face, squatting down beside Savine, all business.

  “She hurt?” asked Broad.

  “I think just scared, mostly.” Savine felt her hand prised open, and the girl took the lenses out and offered them up. “Who could blame her for that?” Savine realised who she was. The Vallimirs’ maid. What had been her name? Dinner on the hill felt like a thousand years ago. May. May Broad.

  She put gentle fingertips on Savine’s cheek. “What’s your name?” She didn’t recognise her. No surprise. Savine barely recognised herself.

  “Ardee,” she whispered. Her mother’s name was the first she could think of, and she felt a burning pain building at the back of her nose, and gave a great snotty sob, and started to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried. She wasn’t sure she ever had. “Thank you,” she blubbered. “Thank you—”

  The girl was frowning down at her chest and Savine realised her foul coat had fallen open. Ruined though it was, one of the bones poking from torn silk, there was no mistaking the quality of her corset. Only a fool could doubt this belonged to a very rich lady, with servants to get her into it. And one look in this girl’s sharp eyes told Savine she was no fool.

  She opened her mouth. To blurt some story. Puke some lie. But all that came out was a stuttering croak. She had nothing left.

  May’s eyes moved up from that ruined embroidery that had been a month of some poor woman’s labour. Then she calmly pulled the coat closed over it.

  “You’re safe now,” she said. “I’ll take her inside.” And she helped Savine to her feet, and towards a doorway. “Reckon she’s had quite a day.”

  Savine clung to her and blubbed like a baby.

  The Man of Action

  The Steadfast Standard snapped majestically, such miraculous needlework that its white horse rampant seemed to rear upon the breeze against a sun of cloth-of-gold, the names of glorious Union victories glittering about its edge. The very flag under which Casamir the Steadfast had conquered Angland, now held perfectly straight in Corporal Tunny’s gnarled fist, martial prowess distilled into a square of cloth.

  There was a rousing rattle of arms and armour as the men spun towards Orso, stomped down their left heels and saluted in perfect unison. Five hundred soldiers, moving as one, sun glinting from their freshly forged equipment. A mere tenth part of his newly raised expeditionary force, fully prepared to sail north and give Stour Nightfall a resounding kick up the arse.

  Orso probably shouldn’t have said it himself, but it was quite a stirring spectacle.

  He returned their salute with a flourish he had been perfecting in front of the mirror. He had to admit he liked wearing a uniform. It gave him the novel feeling of being a man of action. Furthermore, as well cut and starched as this one was, no casual observer could have suspected his paunch had been on the increase lately.

  Colonel Forest grinned as he looked the soldiers over. That open, honest grin that seemed to represent the very best of the Union common man. Earthy, dependable, loyal. A stout yeoman if ever there was one, with his stocky build, and his pronounced facial scar, and his lustrous grey moustaches, and his campaign-worn fur hat.

  “As fine a body of fighting men as I ever saw, Your Highness,” he said. “And I’ve seen a few.”

  They had chosen to call themselves the Crown Prince’s Division. Well, Orso had let them choose the name and Forest had no doubt suggested it. Or more likely insisted on it. Even so, Orso was hugely pleased by the compliment. Perhaps because, for once, he felt he had done the slightest something towards deserving it.

  “What d’you think, Hildi?” he asked.

  “Very shiny,” she said. With characteristic enterprise, she had wangled an embroidered drummer-boy’s uniform to go with her battered cap and now looked quite the soldier. Why not? She had, after all, no less military experience than Orso.

  “What d’you think, Gorst?” he asked.

  “A fine body of men, Your Highness.” Orso had to stop himself wincing. However often one heard that piping voice, one never quite got comfortable with it. “You are to be congratulated.”

  “Nonsense. All I did was stand here.” And spend Savine’s money, and smile, and develop a top-quality salute, anyway. “You’re the one who did the work, Colonel Forest!”

  “Colonel bloody Forest,” muttered Tunny, shaking his head as if at unbearable affectations, while Yolk, always keen to follow his leader, gave a sneer to match.

  Forest ignored them. At ignoring Tunny, as at so many things, he appeared steeped in experience. “They’ve all served before, Your Highness. Some fought in the North. Most fought in Styria. All I did was remind ’em how to go about the business, and that’s no more than my job.”

  “Men can do their jobs badly but you’ve done yours bloody well. I’m lucky to have you.” And Orso gave Forest the special smile. The one he reserved for moments of actual happiness.

  The two of them had formed a winning partnership, so far. Forest provided the experience, judgement, warmth, discipline, courage, facial scarring and, of course, superb moustache. Orso supplied the sparkle, the… Well, his facial hair had always been wretched and he had no noticeable scars, so honestly the sparkle was about all. Perhaps that was what the historians would call him. The King of Sparkle. He gave a helpless snort of laughter. People could have called him worse, he supposed. Indeed, they often had.

  “A king’s job is not to do things well.” Orso gave the slightest wince at the Styrian words, pronounced at ostentatious volume among hundreds of men who had been fighting Styrians for the last ten years—and losing. He had forgotten his mother had come to observe. She sat in her folding chair in the shade of a portable purple awning, her ladies arranged about her on the grass like the gilt frame to a masterpiece. “It is to pick the people who will do them well on his behalf.”

  “You sound almost impressed, Mother,” said Orso, switching to Styrian himself, but at least doing it quietly. “I hadn’t realised your voice could actually take that tone.”

  “Nonsense, Orso. You have heard me be impressed with other people on occasion.”

  He sighed. “True enough.”

  “And it is hardly as though you have done anything you could expect to impress me since you went over to solid food.”

  He sighed again, more deeply. “Also true enough.”

  “A future king has no business fighting.”

  “All the greats were warriors, no? Harod, Casamir, Arnault—”

  The queen waved the weighty names away. “No doubt the common folk swoon over a conquering king, but it’s the coupling kings who found the dynasties.”

  “I’ve spent years coupling. That’s never impressed you, either.”

  “It’s who you couple with, Orso, as you very well know. I’d much rather you were getting married.” She sat back, giving him a thorough examination, tapping at the arm of her folding chair with one exquisitely manicured fingernail. “But if you must play soldiers in the meantime, I will admit…” And she allowed the corner of her mouth to bend by an infinitesimal fraction. “I am
impressed.”

  Orso often told himself that he long ago gave up caring about his mother’s opinions. The glow of satisfaction that warmed him to the roots of his hair revealed that for one of his many lies. “I suppose everyone grows up sooner or later,” he said, turning away so she would not see him blush.

  The queen stood, her folding chair instantly whisked away by one of her liveried footmen. “Perhaps you could help your father do it.” And she turned back towards the palace, her ladies-in-waiting forming a glittering spearhead of which she was the diamond point.

  “Her Majesty looked almost… pleased,” muttered Tunny, lowering the Steadfast Standard and rolling the royal heirloom up with superb skill. Say what you like about the man, and people often did, but he knew his way around a flag. “And I’ve a feeling that’s not easily done.”

  Orso raised his brows. “She’d rather I was getting married, apparently.”

  “You could marry Colonel Forest,” said Tunny. “I definitely sense love blooming between you two.”

  “A man could do a lot worse. Forest is experienced, organised, dependable, considerably more intelligent than me yet defers to me anyway. Aside from a quim, he has every quality one could ask for in a bride.”

  Tunny glanced over at Forest, face reddening beneath that fine fur hat as he bellowed orders at the men. “That bloody hat of his looks like a quim.”

  Orso choked back a laugh. It actually did, a little. “Watch your mouth, Corporal. I may be forced to promote you.”

  “Anything but that.” Tunny had been offered the role of sergeant major but flatly refused to consider anything above corporal. Some men are like water. No matter how high they are lifted, they always yearn to return to the appropriate level. He squinted up at the blazing sun. “Hope you’ve packed some warm clothes, Your Highness. Hard to imagine now, but it gets bitter up there in the North.”

  “It’s what the place is known for, after all.”

  A knight herald was striding over, past the footmen busily dismantling the queen’s awning. “Your Highness!” he thundered at entirely unnecessary volume, snapping his armoured heels together. “His Majesty wishes to see you at once!”

  “At the palace?”

  “At the House of Questions, in the company of Arch Lector Glokta.”

  Orso winced. “Can’t they see I have an army to lead to glory?” He thought about that for a moment. “Or to watch Colonel Forest lead to glory?”

  Tunny leaned in to mutter, “You’ve made glory wait twenty years. Daresay another hour won’t make the difference.”

  “At last!” snapped the king as Orso stepped through the door, plainly very far from his usual good-humoured self.

  His Eminence sat behind his desk in his wheeled chair, a blanket over his knees in spite of the heat, looking even more grim, gaunt and pale than usual, which took some doing. Orso had once seen a three-day-old plague corpse with better colour to its cheeks. Standing at Glokta’s shoulder was perhaps the one man in the entire Union more hideous than he: his deputy, Superior Pike, whose entire face was obliterated by monstrous burns. Pike’s expression was hard to read, but overall the mood was far from encouraging.

  As was his long-established habit, Orso began with deflection. “I’ve got quite the busy day, Father. If you want to see me off, you—”

  “You’re not going to the North,” growled the king.

  “I’m… what?” Orso was robbed of the chance to move on to evasion and forced straight to entitled upset. “Father, I worked for this—”

  “Other men work for things all the time! What makes you special?”

  I’m the crown prince of the bloody Union! was on the very tip of Orso’s tongue, but luckily Pike spoke first, his soft voice betraying no more emotion than his burned face.

  “Your Highness, there has been an uprising in Valbeck.”

  Orso swallowed. “Uprising?” The word was a decidedly ugly one to use before someone of royal blood. Could Pike not have gone for something a bit more neutral, like incident? Even riot would have been preferable. Then he realised the fact that the Superior was using it, in front of a king, a crown prince and their Arch Lector, might be a good guide to the severity of the situation.

  “It is coordinated, well organised and on a considerable scale. It would appear the workers at several mills rose up simultaneously, overpowering foremen, guards and owners.”

  “They’re in control of these mills?”

  The Arch Lector’s left eye began to twitch and he dabbed away a tear. “It would appear that they are in control of the whole city. They may well have infiltrated the town watch, too. Perhaps… even the Inquisition.”

  “They have thrown up barricades,” said Pike, “taken hostages and are issuing demands.”

  “Good grief.” Orso sank numbly into a chair. Valbeck had grown to be one of Midderland’s largest and most modern cities. Uprising was beginning to sound like a euphemism. This was a short step from outright revolt! “How could this happen?”

  “A damn good question!” snapped the king, frowning towards his Arch Lector.

  “The Breakers are at the heart of it,” said Glokta. “And the Burners.”

  “Who the hell are they?” asked Orso.

  A muscle was working angrily on the side of His Majesty’s head. “The Breakers want to force concessions from me. The Burners want to see me and the entire nobility and government of the Union hanged so they can impose a new order, probably one on fire.”

  Orso swallowed again. It felt as if there was a lump in his throat he could not force down. “I take it their opinion of me is less than glowing?”

  “You think your mother’s a harsh critic? Wait until you hear what these bastards say about you.”

  “I have an agent in Valbeck,” said Glokta. “She sent a boy back to Adua with a warning, but too late to act on, and since then… nothing. We simply have no idea of the situation inside the city.”

  “Chaos,” growled Orso’s father, clenching his fists.

  “The success of these traitors will encourage other malcontents,” said Glokta. “Other plots against His Majesty and His Majesty’s subjects. We are stretched to the limit keeping the peace. Prince Orso, yours are the only troops available.”

  “I will accompany you to Valbeck, Your Highness,” said Pike, “to provide the full support of the Inquisition.”

  Orso blinked. “But what about the North? I was—”

  “For pity’s sake!” the king burst out with uncharacteristic violence, ripping open the top button of his braid-heavy jacket and dashing sweat angrily from his forehead. “Not everything is about you! The Arch Lector’s own daughter is caught up in this!” He seemed to remember himself, cleared his throat self-consciously. “And many others, of course. Many sons and daughters—”

  “Wait, what?” Orso struggled to supress a surge of utter horror. “Your daughter… Savine?” Though he knew full well the Arch Lector had no others. That lump in his throat had swelled so much he could scarcely speak around it.

  Glokta sagged into his chair. “She was in Valbeck. Visiting one of her manufactories.” His grey lips peeled back from his ruined teeth. “I have not heard from her. I do not know if she is free, or a prisoner. I do not know if she is alive, or—”

  “Damn these treacherous bastards!” burst out the king, grinding one fist into his palm. “I’ve more than half a mind to lead the Knights of the Body out there myself!”

  “It would be beneath the king’s dignity.” Orso stood, the legs of his chair shrieking across the tiles. “I’ll go.” Savine needed him. “I’ll go at once.” And the rest of the Union, of course, but, bloody hell, Savine needed him! “Tunny!” he roared, striding for the door. Almost a shriek, in truth. “Tell Colonel Forest we march for Valbeck immediately!”

  Ugly Business

  She lay on her side, her cheek on his shoulder and both legs wrapped around one of his, pressed against him, huddled against him, bur rowed into the blankets beside him.
>
  Leo was always so warm, like having one of those lovely glowing winter logs from the old firepit in bed with her. Not long ago, she’d spent weeks bitter cold, not to mention hungry, chafed and terrified, so lying warm and safe, nicely balanced between sleeping and waking, was contentment to feel awfully thankful for in Rikke’s mind. Would’ve been perfect, really.

  If he could’ve just kept his mouth shut.

  “She won’t let me do a bloody thing,” he was grumbling. “She treats me like… a puppy on a short leash!”

  “Lion on a leash,” she mumbled.

  “It’s a wonder she doesn’t have me packed in a box at night.”

  If his mother could’ve packed his head in a box but left the rest of him available, it would’ve suited Rikke just fine, but he probably didn’t want to hear that.

  “All we do is prod at them,” he snapped, “loiter around their supply lines, nibble little victories here and there.”

  “Uh,” grunted Rikke, stroking absently at those nice grooves in his stomach and hoping vainly that might shush him up. No such luck.

  “We need to get to grips with them.” An uncomfortable jolt went through his shoulder as he clenched his fists. “Need to hurt the bastards!”

  “Isn’t that the point?” Rikke reluctantly opened one eye and lifted her head to peer at him through it. “Scale and Calder and Stour between ’em have more men than us. So we slow them down. Keep them split up. Keep them guessing. Every mile we draw them on, they get weaker.” It was somewhat troubling that she, who’d never drawn a sword, was having to explain to him, a famous warrior, how their strategy worked. “We wait for our moment. Your moment.” She let her head drop back onto his shoulder and wriggled into his warmth again. “Wait for your friend Prince Orso to arrive—”