A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Queen…” It came out a strangled squawk. The sort of noise a goose might make when its neck was wrung. “Savine…”

  He could have had anyone. But he wanted her. And not her money, not her connections, not her wigs and her dresses and her jewels. Not the idea of her. But her. At her worst. Even now. Even like this. Not just as his lover. As his wife. As his queen.

  “I…” she breathed, but her voice failed her utterly and it came out no more than an acrid burp.

  “Shit.” He winced as he sharply stood. “You don’t have to answer. You don’t even have to think about it.” He pulled one hand away, but clung on with the fingertips of the other as if he could not quite bring himself to let go. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m such an arsehole. Take all the time… you need…”

  He had ridden to her rescue. With five thousand armed men. Men she had paid for, but even so. She had never thought she might need rescuing. She had never dreamed he might be the man to do it. It was as if she had never really seen him before. She had known she could laugh with him. But she had never imagined she might be able to trust him. To rely on him. She had been braced for rejection and disappointment. Sympathy and support she had no idea what to do with.

  “Shit,” he said, finally letting go of her fingers, leaving them strangely tingling. “I’m terrible at this. Is there something you need? Is there anything I can… Do you want to be alone? Do you want me to go?” He turned towards the tent flap.

  She caught his wrist. It was trembling. His wrist and her hand both.

  Then she was kissing him.

  It was not elegant. He stumbled back in surprise, blundered into a pole in the middle of the tent and for a moment, she thought he might bring the whole thing flapping down around them. Their chins knocked painfully. Then their noses. She tried to twist her head to one side and he went the same way, then they both went the other.

  She caught his head, gripped it with both hands, teeth scraping, ugly grunting, undignified slurping. Awkward and fierce and urgent, as if they were running out of time. Nothing like the neat routines they used to go through in Sworbreck’s office, with all the polite back and forth of a formal dance, a dignified game in which they both kept their cards close. Now everything was on the table and it felt deadly serious, her heart thudding in her ears just as it had the day of the uprising.

  She saw his bed behind a curtain, brass gleaming in the shadows, and she pushed him towards it. He blundered into a stove, still trying to kiss her, nearly fell right over it, then got tangled with the curtain until she tore it out of the way. How many people knew she was in here? How many might guess what was happening? She didn’t care.

  All the elaborate precautions she used to follow. The carefully laid alibis, the changes of carriage, the blinds lowered in Sworbreck’s bloody office. Against her father finding out. Against his parents finding out. Against her ending up carrying a bastard. She had been so formidably organised. So overpoweringly sensible. Romance totted up and tallied in Zuri’s book like a manufactory’s accounts.

  Now all she could think of was how easily she could have died in Valbeck. Beaten to death. Starved to death. Burned to death. Ripped apart by her own machines. Manners, and propriety, and reputation, and good sense… none of that seemed to matter beside the necessity to tear off this sack of a dress and have his skin against hers. Her face was wet. She might have been crying. She didn’t care.

  She twisted around so he could get at the fastenings. “Get this thing off me.”

  “Doing my best,” he muttered, fumbling at her collar. “Fucking… damn it!” A ripping of stitches, a tap and rattle as buttons bounced away and she tore her arms free of the sleeves, dragged it down, wriggled out of it like a snake wriggling from its unwanted skin. She kicked it away, cheap petticoats and all, making the canvas wall of the tent flap and rustle.

  There had been times, in Sworbreck’s office, when she had not got as far as taking her hat off before they were done. Now she stood stark naked. Uncovered, unguarded. His hands were on her waist. Fingertips scarcely brushing her skin. As if he hardly dared touch her. She could hear his breath. Slid her fingers between his, wrapped his hands around her, guiding them, up onto her chest, down between her legs. She had her tongue between her teeth, biting, almost painful.

  In the overwritten romances her mother pretended not to read, the prince would always ride to the heroine’s rescue and whisk her from danger in the nick of time, and she would fall into his bed, swooning with gratitude, so pathetically predictable. Savine had always felt nothing but contempt for reading that nonsense, and here she was actually doing it. She didn’t care.

  He paused a moment, ragged breath tickling her ear. “Are you sure you want to—”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure.” She reached behind to twist her fingers in his hair, twist his head down so she could kiss him over her shoulder, suck at his tongue. Clumsy, hungry, mouth-crushing kisses while her other hand struggled with his belt buckle behind her back, digging at it, twisting at it, finally dragging it clinking free. He gave a little gasp as she pulled his trousers open, found his cock, started to rub it, wrist painfully twisted.

  “Damn it,” he gasped, fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. “Bloody… uniforms.”

  When he finally ripped his shirt off, she closed her eyes at the warmth of his bare chest against her bare back, his arm slipping around her ribs, holding her tight against him, skin pressed to skin. His other hand slid back down between her legs again and she rubbed herself against it, backwards and forwards. She slipped one knee up onto the bed, clumsy, off balance, almost falling, had to grip the bedstead with one hand, the other still rubbing at his prick, feeling the end prod wetly against her backside.

  No ambitions or manipulations. No fretting on what happened yesterday or what would come tomorrow. Just his breathless grunts and her whimpery moans, eyes closed and mouth open. By the Fates, she sounded like a cat crying to be let in. She didn’t care.

  She let go of everything.

  Lost Causes

  “You can go,” said Vick.

  The Practical’s eyes slid over to the prisoner, sly and cruel and very narrow. She wondered if they were trained to use their eyes that way, or if only people with a naturally threatening glare wanted to work as Practicals in the first place. Bit of both, maybe.

  “I think I can handle him,” she said. The prisoner’s wrists were shackled behind his back, after all, and chained to the chair for good measure, the bag over his head shifting as he breathed.

  The door shut, and Vick took the bag by one corner and dragged it off.

  She’d liked Malmer from the moment she met him. She’d never have admitted it, because it could have become a weakness to exploit. But she liked him a lot. Respected him. Reckoned he was as close as men got to being good. So it hurt, his wounded look as he recognised her. But a look was all it was. Vick had met kicks and sticks and knives with a smile, and some of them from people she’d liked. A hurt look wouldn’t shift her resolve any more than a breeze would shift a mountain. Or so she told herself.

  “You’re one o’ them,” he breathed, and he closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head. “Never would’ve picked you as the one. Would’ve picked you last of all.”

  “That’s my job,” she said as she dropped into the chair opposite.

  “Well, you’re damn good at it. Hope you’re proud.”

  “I’m not ashamed. Folk who keep hold of baggage like shame and pride don’t last a week in the camps.”

  “That much was true, then?”

  “My family died there. All of them.”

  “Then… how can you work for these bastards now? After what you’ve been through?”

  “You’ve got it backwards.” Vick leaned towards him. “After what I’ve been through, how could I not work for these bastards now?”

  Malmer’s shoulders sagged. “We were promised amnesty. Is that true, at least?”

  “That’s true. But you must’ve
known there’d be questions.” She looked him full in the face, so she could judge every twitch or tick or movement of his eyes. So she could sense the truth. “Where’s Risinau?”

  He gave a weary sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Judge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Just give me something I can give them. Help me help you.”

  “You think I wouldn’t hand over Judge if I could?” Malmer gave a sad chuckle. “I’d cheer at her bloody hanging, the mad witch.”

  The answers she’d known she’d get. But the questions still had to be asked. “Who’s the Weaver?”

  “That’s what Risinau called himself, when we first met.”

  “When was that?”

  “I was arrested for agitating. Five years ago. Maybe six. All we did was band together to ask for a fair wage, but I got the blame. Seems I’ve a talent for that. Risinau came to me. In a room like this one. Said he saw things our way. Said he wanted to help. Strike a blow for the common man, that’s what he said. Bring a Great Change.” Malmer curled his lip. “Guess I believed what I wanted to. Guess I’ve a talent for that, too.”

  “Most of us do,” said Vick. “You know what I think?”

  “If I did, I might not be in this chair.”

  “Risinau was a fool. He might’ve presided over the chaos, but there’s no way he planned that uprising.” She eased a little closer, as if she was sharing her secrets rather than winkling his out. Nothing to make people trust you like pretending you trust them. “He said the Weaver was a name he borrowed from someone else. Someone who set him on this path.”

  It was thin, she knew. Nothing that might convince His Eminence there was some deeper conspiracy. But Vick had never been able to leave a loose thread dangling.

  “What do you owe Risinau?” she asked. “He used you all. A blow for the common man? Don’t make me laugh. Who’s the Weaver?”

  Malmer was frowning down at the tabletop. As if she’d made him think. As if he was picking through the past, trying things different ways. Then he blinked and sat back with a grunt, as if he’d suddenly made them fit.

  “There was a man, at the first big meeting I went to. Risinau was so… respectful of him. Awestruck, almost. Like a priest who’d had God turn up to his service. Risinau pointed him out while he was talking. Called him the founder of the feast. The reason we were all there. But he didn’t say a thing. Just watched.”

  “Who was it?” growled Vick. She could taste the answer, dangling right in front of her.

  “Never heard his name,” said Malmer. “Never really saw his face, but—”

  There was a clatter as the doorknob turned and Vick twisted around, ready to snap at the Practical to get out. The words never left her lips.

  Superior Pike stood in the doorway, his burned face expressionless, two Practicals at his shoulders, even crueller glares than usual above their masks.

  “Well, well,” he said in a papery whisper, stepping into the narrow room. “This is cosy.”

  The legs of Vick’s chair screeched as she stood. “Superior Pike. An honour.”

  “The honour is very much mine. That was remarkable work in Valbeck, Inquisitor. Both subtle and bold. Both cunning and courageous. Without you, this uprising might have had a far bloodier ending. But I should not be surprised. His Eminence has always had the trick of picking the right person for a job.”

  Vick humbly bowed. “You’re too kind, Superior.”

  “Not many people would agree with you on that score,” said Pike, his eyes shifting to Malmer.

  “This man was one of the leaders of the uprising. I was asking him some questions about its origins.”

  “I thought we had our wayward colleague Superior Risinau to blame for that?”

  “Possibly.” Vick left it there. Never use more words when fewer will do the trick.

  “I would love to watch you work. There are few people from whom I could learn something about interrogation.” Pike gave a sorry sigh. “But His Eminence wants you to return to Adua. He wishes to congratulate you personally.”

  “It’s really no trouble to—”

  “Enjoy your rest.” Pike laid a hand on her shoulder. The very lightest of touches, but it still made her skin tingle unpleasantly. “No one could say you have not earned it. I will uncover all that can be uncovered.” And one of the Practicals placed a heavy box on the table, instruments rattling inside. “Trust me.”

  Vick glanced back at Malmer. Once, in the camps, while they were dragging logs across a frozen lake, a convict had fallen through the ice. Another two had slid on their bellies to the hole, hoping to drag them from the water. They’d gone through, too.

  If you want to survive, you’d better get a good sense for lost causes. Then you’d better let them go. Let them go before you go down with them. She turned towards the door.

  “We should talk at some point, you and I.” Pike was one of those people with a nasty habit of calling you back, just to show he could.

  “About what, Superior?”

  “There are many people in the Inquisition who have spent time in the prison camps of Angland, but most of them held the keys.” He leaned close to murmur, the tickle of his breath making the hairs stand on the back of her neck. “Those few of us who spent time on the other side of the locks should stick together. We should remind each other… of the lessons learned there.”

  She gave a queasy smile. “They’re always at the front of my mind.”

  Malmer stared as one of the Practicals began to take instruments from the case, arranging them in a neat row down one side of the table.

  Vick had liked him from the moment she met him. She didn’t enjoy that scene one bit. But you’d better get a good sense for the lost causes. Then you’d better let them go. She hunched her shoulders and turned for the door.

  “Now then. Master Malmer, was it? I think you were saying something about… the Weaver?”

  And the latch dropped shut.

  The New Man

  Orso’s eyes flickered open.

  Pale light. The rustle of canvas in the breeze. It took him a moment to remember where he was.

  Valbeck. And something to feel very pleased about…

  The uprising was finished, and…

  Savine!

  He rolled over, ever so slowly, hardly daring to look, suddenly terrified that he had dreamed the whole thing and the bed would be empty.

  But there she lay, beside him. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, sharp collarbones gently shifting with her breath.

  For a moment, he felt the prickle of tears, had to squeeze his lids shut. She was safe. She was with him. The smile spread across his face.

  He had proposed. He had actually done it. And, true, she might not technically have given him an actual yes, but dragging him to the bed seemed a long way from a no. When he picked out a pair of boots, he changed his mind three times and was racked by doubts all day. About this, the biggest decision of his life, there was no question in his mind. Savine was the woman for him. The one he wanted and the one he needed. She always had been.

  He shifted towards her. Reached out to touch her face.

  He wanted to wake her. To hold her. To fuck her again, certainly, but it was much more than that. This was love, not lust. Or at any rate, it was both. He wanted to tell her about all the hopes he had. Hopes for them. Dreams for the nation. Plans for all the good they could do.

  Then he paused, fingertips just shy of her cheek, the warmth of her breath on his palm.

  She looked so peaceful. To wake her would be selfishness. For once in his life, he would put someone else first. He would make himself a pillar of support rather than a dead weight of disappointment for others to drag from failure to failure. He pulled his hand back.

  He would not do the easy thing and play the hero. He would do the work and be one. Ever so gently, he wriggled from the bed, fished up his trousers between two fingers and, holding the buckle to stop it clinking, pulled the
m on, wedging his morning stiffness dismissively behind his belt where it could droop in its own time. Wouldn’t be needing that this morning. He would give her space. He would give her whatever she needed. He would help her heal.

  He whisked his Suljuk silk dressing gown around his shoulders, unable to wipe his grin away. There were a hundred roles he had tried and failed at, often spectacularly. Husband was one of the few remaining at which he might yet achieve dazzling success. He would not let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Not this time.

  He stood by the curtain to the main part of the tent for just a moment, looking back. He pressed his fingers to his mouth, almost blew her a kiss. He stopped himself, realising how ridiculous it was. Then he did it anyway, damn it, and let the curtain fall.

  There had been a time—yesterday, being honest—when dawn would have found him searching through the bottles scattered about his bed for something he could suck the last drops from. But that man was gone, never to return. Tea was what he needed now. The dawn beverage of industrious achievers!

  “Hildi!” he shouted, in the vague direction of the tent flap. “Stove needs lighting!”

  He was beginning to feel exceedingly pleased with himself and he suspected that, for once, he might even deserve it.

  True, the dangerous work had been done by Arch Lector Glokta’s formidable double agent, but he felt he had played the hand of aces she dealt him rather well. He had made the hard call to wait and tread softly. He had handled the negotiations with regal authority. He had showed clemency, restraint and good judgement. He had saved lives.

  Orso the Merciful, might the historians call him, looking back admiringly on his achievements? It sounded rather well. A great deal better than most of the names the public had for him, anyway.