Leo smiled. It wasn’t hard to do. Orso was right, after all. He did deserve the glory.
How many people can say they won a war single-handed?
Everyone had cheered for Leo dan Brock, up on his own at the front of the parade, a famous hero from head to toe. Things quietened down a lot as the great men of the Open Council followed.
“That’s fucking Isher,” growled Broad as he rode past with his chin in the air, great gilded cloak spread out across the hindquarters of his prancing horse. “The one who stole our land. Looks like he’s done all right out of it, the—”
“Let it go.” Liddy’s hand was gentle on the back of his. Gentle but firm. “Your anger won’t hurt him any, but it could hurt us.”
“Aye,” said Broad, taking a hard breath. “You’re right.” It had hurt them enough already.
Fur-trimmed worthies followed the lords, trying to steal a piece of glory they’d had no part in winning. Next came the officers, and Broad turned his head and spat. After what he’d been through in Styria, he liked those bastards no better than the lords.
“There’s Orso!” called a child up on shoulders.
“Why’s he back here?”
“Shamed to show his face beside a real hero,” someone grumbled.
Broad saw him, now. Sat on a fine grey in this loose, relaxed way like he didn’t know what guilt was, an odd little smirk at the corner of his mouth as he chatted to some old soldier in a fine fur hat.
“Shame!” someone roared. “Down wi’ the crown prince!” A tall man with a thick black beard, standing on tiptoe to shout over the heads of those in front. Folk frowned around at him but he’d the light of madness in his eyes and didn’t back down a step. “Murderer!”
Liddy shook her head. “Damn fool will only cause trouble.”
“Got a point, though,” muttered Broad. “Orso is a bloody murderer.”
“Didn’t Valbeck teach you any lessons at all, Gunnar? You can have a point and still keep it to yourself.”
“Two hundred good men and women he hanged as traitors,” grumbled Broad.
“They were traitors,” said May, jaw tight. “That’s just a fact.”
Broad didn’t like hearing it, specially from his own daughter. “We could argue that case, I reckon.” Though arguing with May never got him anywhere he wanted to go. “Truth is, Leo dan Brock fought in a war. Orso just sat in a tent and lied.”
“Cheer for Leo dan Brock, then,” muttered Liddy, “and leave His Highness out of it. You’ve no idea who’s listening. Inquisition are everywhere.”
That bearded bastard didn’t seem to care. “Shit on the Young Lamb!” he bellowed through cupped hands, and Orso looked over with that faint, bored smile, and gave a little bow, and there was some scattered laughter which Broad had to admit took a little venom out of the gathering.
Moments later, someone barged his shoulder and three black-clothed men shoved through the crowd. The bearded heckler saw them, spun about, but another two were coming the other way. The crowd surged back as if from a plague victim as the Practicals caught him, shoved him down, started forcing a stained bag over his head.
“No!” hissed Liddy. Was only then Broad noticed her hand on his arm. Both hands, dragging him back as hard as she could. “No more trouble!” Was only then he noticed his every muscle was stiff and his fists clenched trembling tight and his lips curled back in a snarl.
“Don’t you dare fuck this up for us!” May had slipped in front of him, was stabbing her pointed finger in his face. “Not when we just got right!” There were tears glimmering in her eyes. “Don’t you dare!”
Broad took a deep breath and let it shudder away. Watched as three Practicals manhandled that poor fool through the crowd. Could’ve been him, dragged off to the House of Questions. Would’ve been him, gibbetted beside the road to Valbeck, if it hadn’t been for May and the biggest slice of luck an undeserving man ever got.
“I won’t, May.” He felt tears in his own eyes then, eased his lenses down his nose to rub them dry. “I’m sorry.”
“You promised us,” hissed Liddy, dragging him back towards the tramping men, and the high-stepping horses, and the flags and shiny metal. “No more trouble.”
“No more trouble.” Broad put his arms around his wife and his daughter, and held them both close. “I promise.”
But his fists were still so tightly clenched, they ached.
Savine had always loved grand events. The bigger the crowd, the more opportunities to turn strangers into acquaintances, acquaintances into friends, and friends into money. They were a chance to be seen, and therefore admired, and therefore kept powerful. Because power is a mountain one is always sliding down. A mountain one must claw and strive and scramble always to keep one’s place upon, let alone to climb higher. A mountain made not of rock, but of everyone else’s writhing, struggling, grasping bodies.
Events came no grander than this one. A holiday had been declared for the working folk of Adua and the furnaces had been doused and the vapours cleared. It was warm for the start of winter, the sun shining crisp upon the revelling crowds. Those of the great and good who had not joined the famous victors on their parade were gathered here at the end of the route, along with a multitude of the small and bad, in the Square of Marshals.
Savine was at the heart of it, at one end of the purple-swagged royal box, along with most of the Closed Council, a legion of toadying footmen and stern Knights of the Body, not to mention Their August Majesties the High King and Queen of the Union. Terez stood painfully erect at the very pinnacle of power, honouring the crowd with the occasional scornful wave, unquestioned mistress of all she saw. For once, Savine did not need to make an effort to be jealous. That could have been her place. Should have been. Almost had been.
The king glanced sideways and, just for an instant, caught Savine’s eye. That same sad, needy look, and she stared down at her very fine shoes. She had no idea why she should be embarrassed. She was not the one who had fucked her mother and abandoned the results. But still her face burned.
She had always loved grand events, but she hated everything and everyone today, and herself most of all. She missed Orso like an arm cut off. She would think of some observation only he would understand, and smile, and turn to Zuri to arrange a meeting… and then that sappy pang of loss all over again.
Leo dan Brock had been a pleasing diversion. From the neck down, he was astonishing. When she opened his shirt, she had spent a moment just staring. It was as if he was carved from flesh-coloured marble by a sculptor intent on exaggeration. There had been a moment when he lifted her clean off her feet so effortlessly, it felt as if she might never come down…
But in the end, what truly makes a man is above the neck. The instant she made a joke, Orso would have pounced upon it, unfolded and developed it, tossed it back delightfully changed. Leo scarcely realised a joke had been made. Like that new invention Curnsbick was always prattling about, he was a wagon on rails. Conversationally he went only one way, and that at no great speed.
She needed a little something. She bent as if to adjust her shoe and slipped the silver box from her sleeve. Just a pinch to settle the nerves. That first pinch, which was actually about the fifth that morning, did not quite do the trick, so she took a bigger one. A lady of taste never leaves a job half-done, after all.
She straightened up sharply and nearly toppled right over, the rush of blood to her head so savage she thought her eyes might pop from her skull. When things came back into focus, she realised Zuri was holding her firmly by the elbow.
“What?” snarled Savine, ripping her arm free. She felt guilty right away. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’d be lost without you.”
“Lady Savine…” Zuri glanced carefully about the royal box. Her stumble had evidently been noticed. They were always watching, the fucking vultures, hoping for fresh meat to rip at. “You do not seem yourself.”
“Who am I now, exactly? Answer me that.” She was close to shrieking al
l of a sudden, the pulse throbbing behind her temples, and she wiped her sore nose, and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Zuri. No one deserves being shouted at less than you.”
“Do you need to leave?”
“And miss all this shit?” As she waved towards the thronging square, Savine noticed the finger and thumbtip of her glove were stained white with pearl dust and tried unsuccessfully to slap it off against her other hand.
“Sticky fingers?” murmured her father from the side of his mouth. Although, of course, he was not her father. Arch Lector Glokta, entirely unrelated by blood.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” she snapped.
“But I am concerned.” He continued to gaze out at the crowd as the distant cheering grew louder, the happy parade approaching through the streets of the Agriont, but he crooked one finger to beckon her down beside his chair. “Might I ask what you are doing with Brock?”
“You know about that?”
“I imagine half of Adua knows about it.”
“The last thing I need is a fucking lecture,” she snarled, and suddenly, entirely unbidden, entirely inappropriate, a memory welled up. That dark-skinned little girl, wet eyes lit by flames, pleading with her in a filthy alley in Valbeck. Please, please, please, over and over, the crushing terror and the stink of burning.
Her clothes were too tight, far too tight, she could hardly breathe. She twisted and wriggled in a sweaty panic, fumbled pointlessly behind her waist at laces she knew she could not loosen. No more than a prisoner could pick their shackles off with their fingernails.
Her father frowned up at her. “Whatever has got into you, Savine?”
“Into me?” Fury bubbling up again as she caught the arm of his chair and bent to hiss in his ear. “Do you know what your wife told me?”
“Of course I know. What kind of a fool do you take me for?”
She gave a snort of bitter, snotty laughter. “Not half as big a one as you and my mother took me for.”
A flurry of twitches ran up the left side of his face and set his eyelid flickering. “Your mother was young, and alone, and she made a mistake. Since then, all she has thought of is what was best for you.”
“That and draining a bottle—ah!”
Her father’s hand gripped her arm, pulling her down closer. He forced the words through tight lips. “Put aside your pique, this is serious.”
“Pique?” she whispered. “Pique? I’m a lie, do you not understand?”
Several people had evidently caught the anger of their exchange, curious faces turned towards them. One in particular. The First of the Magi stood beside the king, dressed in robes with a dash of the arcane now, for a public appearance. He smiled, a knowing little smile, and gave her a nod of acknowledgement.
Her father did not miss it. He scarcely moved his thin lips, but she could see a muscle working on the side of his head. “Has he approached you?”
“Who?”
“Bayaz,” he hissed, gripping her wrist almost painfully tight.
“I’ve never spoken to him.” Savine frowned. “Though… there was a man, at the Solar Society, who claimed to be a magus. He didn’t look like one.”
The cords in her father’s thin neck shifted as he swallowed. “Sulfur?”
“He said some nonsense about changing the world. About seeking new friends—”
“Whatever they ask for, whatever they offer, refuse, do you understand?” He looked up at her now. She was not sure she had ever seen him look scared before. “Refuse and come to me at once.”
“What the hell has Bayaz to do with anything—”
“Everything!” He gripped her even tighter, pulled her even closer. “I hardly think you have considered the danger of your position. Bastard or no, you are the king’s oldest child. That could make you very valuable. And very vulnerable. Now pull yourself together. This sulking is beneath you.” He let go of her, wiped a tear from his weeping left eye and began politely to applaud as Leo dan Brock rode into the square, smiling hugely, and the cheering was redoubled.
Savine slowly straightened, rubbing at the livid marks her father’s fingers had left on her wrist. She wanted to punch him in his toothless mouth. She wanted to scream at the mad top of her voice, right in the king’s face. She wanted at least to storm furiously away.
But that would only draw attention. And no one could know. Her father was right about that. Or he would have been, if he had been her father. Bayaz was still smiling straight at her. Less majestic than the statue which stood not far off on the Kingsway, but a great deal more smug. All Savine could do was turn her attention to the square, push her shoulders back, her chin up and her face into the blandest smile imaginable, and clap.
And fume like a boiling kettle.
Orso heard the cheering ahead as the parade reached the Square of Marshals. He heard the chanting of, “Leo! Leo!” The calls of, “The Young Lion!” There could be no doubt the manly bastard filled the role of hero spectacularly well. Far better than Orso ever could.
He had to admit to being pleasantly surprised by the new Lord Governor of Angland. He had expected him to be a humourless thug and, yes, he had the usual provincial prejudices, but he turned out to be rather winningly honest and generous. A hard man to hate. The poor bastard had no idea he was hammering nails into Orso’s skull when he talked about Savine. He had no idea about a lot of things. Probably she would squeeze the hapless fool until his pips squeaked and leave him a pining husk. It would hardly be the first time she’d done it. All it took was the thought of her with another man to leave Orso wanting to puke out his eyes.
Then he caught sight of Rikke, and found he was smiling in spite of himself.
She slouched in the saddle, squinting angrily up at the sun as though she was taking its shining personally. He wasn’t sure she’d changed a thing since getting out of his bed. Among that immaculately tailored, groomed and decorated company, he found her total lack of effort oddly attractive.
He had wanted to marry the best-dressed woman in the Circle of the World, after all, and look how that turned out.
“Your Highness,” she grunted as he dropped back towards her.
“Your…” Orso frowned. “What’s the term of address for an emissary from the Protectorate?”
“Rikke?”
“You don’t stand on ceremony up there, do you?”
“We stomp all over it. What are you doing back here with the chaff? Not enough width on one street for two heads so swollen as yours and Leo dan Brock’s?”
“I quite like him.” Orso shrugged. “A great deal better than I like myself, at least. In which I think, for once, I am in tune with the public mood.” Those commoners who looked in Orso’s direction did so, in the main, with hatred. “No doubt I deserve it, though.”
“Unpopular at home, you came down here to work on overseas alliances. You’re not the self-obsessed rake I was expecting.”
“I fear I’m even worse.” He leaned towards her, dropping his voice. “There’s only one alliance I want to work on, and it’s the one between my prick and your—”
He caught sight of the man riding just behind Rikke. A towering old Northman with the most monstrous scar he had ever seen, a bright ball of metal gleaming in the midst of it. His other eye was fixed on Orso with an expression fit to freeze the blood. Though it must be hard to find warm expressions when you have a face like a murderer’s nightmare.
Orso swallowed. “Your friend has a metal eye.”
“That’s Caul Shivers. Got a good claim to being the most feared man in the North.”
“And he’s… your bodyguard?”
Rikke shrugged her bony shoulders. “Just a friend. But I guess he’s filling the role.”
“And the woman?”
She watched Orso even more intently than Shivers, if anything, one hand blue with tattoos, her stony-hard face shifting rhythmically as she chewed at something. Without breaking eye contact, she turned her head and savagely spat.
“That’s Isern-i-Phail. Reckoned most wise among the hillwomen. She knows all the ways. Even better’n her daddy did. She’s been helping me open the Long Eye. And to make of my heart a stone. With mixed results.”
“So she’s… your tutor?”
Rikke shrugged again. “Just a friend. But I guess she’s filling the role.”
“For an easy-going woman, you have some fearsome retainers.”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe.” She leaned close. “Long as you don’t let me down.”
“Oh, I let everyone down.” He grinned at her, and she grinned back, all the way across her wide mouth. It looked so wonderfully open and true, somehow, that he felt pleased with himself for having some part in it. He had proposed to the most manipulative woman in the Circle of the World, after all.
Look how that turned out.
No expense had been spared. They’d turned the Square of Marshals into an arena, like they did for the Summer Contest, banks of seating bursting with happy crowds. The buildings were decked with flags: the sun of the Union, the crossed hammers of Angland. Everyone wore their best, though their best varied depending on which end of the square you were at. Up at the other end it was jewels and silk, down here it was twice-turned jackets and a ribbon or two for the lucky ones.
Still, feeling is free, so there was no shortage of emotion as the glittering ranks tramped past. There was jealous admiration: of beggars for commoners, of commoners for gentry, of gentry for nobility, of nobility for royalty, all twisting their necks looking always up to what they didn’t quite have. There was warlike enthusiasm, mostly from those who’d never drawn a sword in their lives, since those used to swinging them tend to know better. There was patriotic fervour enough to drown an island full of foreign scum, and righteous delight that the Union made the best young bastards in the world. There was civic pride from the denizens of mighty Adua, City of White Towers, for no one breathed vapours so thick or drank water as dirty as they did, nor paid so much for rooms so small.
When it came to feeding the people, or housing them better than dogs, there were always harsh limits on what government could afford. But for a royal triumph, the Closed Council would find a way. Someone who’d starved in the camps, who’d lied her way into the hearts and beds of good people, who’d tricked and tortured to betray a cause she halfway believed in for the sake of one she didn’t at all, might’ve felt a little bitter at seeing all this money wasted.
A Little Hatred Page 54