Mozolia smiled, ever so slightly. “Fancy that. You speak Styrian after all. I hope His Eminence sent an unsentimental sum of money along with you.”
“Something better.” Vick flicked open the letter and held it out between two fingers. The signature of Arch Lector Glokta lurked at the bottom, the lethal punchline. “Trade rights once controlled by the Guild of Mercers, managed by His Majesty’s Inquisition for these last thirty years. His Eminence is prepared to cut you in, quite handsomely.”
Mozolia took the letter and weighed every word. Vick didn’t rush her. She closed her eyes and tipped her face towards the sun, breathed in the perfumed air. So rare, she had a moment to just sit.
“A nice, neat bribe.” Mozolia lowered the letter. “Well judged.”
“I understand that here in Westport, you like to be honest about your corruption.”
“I take it all back, you are positively fluent.” Mozolia rocked her weight forward and stood, casting Vick into shadow again. “I shall consider your offer.”
“Don’t take too long. We women really should do everything we can to work together.”
Vick nudged the over-heavy drapes aside to peer into the street. The sun was setting on a largely wasted day, a muddy flare above the maze of mismatched rooftops, the thirsty treetops, the puffing chimneys, the spires of a hundred temples to a dozen versions of the Almighty. She wondered if it helped, to believe in God. Whether it was reassuring or terrifying, to look at all this shit and know for sure it was part of some grand plan.
Vick pressed her thumb into her aching hip as she watched the candles being lit at some Thondish shrine, the lights twinkling in the windows, the bobbing torches of guides who led foreigners to Westport’s best hostelries, best eateries, best back-alley muggings. The low murmur of voices passed the door, a coquettish giggle tinkling off down the hallway.
Tallow frowned around the room. It was an idiot’s idea of how a palace might be decorated, all velvet and peeling gilt. “What kind of arsehole arranges to meet in a brothel?”
“One who likes whores and making people uncomfortable,” said Vick. Sanders Rosimiche, by all accounts, loved both. A strutting loudmouth, but one who’d voiced support for the Union in the past, and a vote was a vote. People often say that bullies should be stood up to, but Vick usually found it more productive to let them bully her. That was why she’d made a rare visit to a dressmaker, in the hope of looking as feminine and yielding as possible. Hair down and combed with oil in the Westport style. She’d even worn perfume, Fates help her. The one thing she’d refused was high shoes. In her line of work, you never knew when you might have to run for your life. Or kick someone in the face.
“Fuck these things,” she grunted, hooking a finger into her corset and trying vainly to wriggle into a comfortable position. Despite being made to measure, it fit her incredibly badly. Or perhaps it was cut to fit the woman people would like her to be, not the one she was.
She wondered what Sibalt would’ve said if he’d seen her dressed like this. I wish I’d met you sooner, maybe. Things might have been different. And she’d have said, You didn’t and they’re not. And he’d have given that weary smile of his and said, You’re a hard case, Vick, and he’d have been right. She caught herself missing him at the oddest times. Missing the warmth of him, the weight of him in her arms, the weight of his arms around her. Missing having someone she could touch.
But Sibalt cut his own throat when she betrayed him. Thinking about what he might’ve done was a waste of time.
She let the drapes fall and turned back into the room, caught Tallow frowning at her, as if at a puzzle he couldn’t quite find the answer to.
“Do you have to keep staring?” she snapped.
“Sorry.” And he shrank back like a puppy got a kick. “It’s just, you look…”
“Absurd?”
“Different, I guess—”
“Don’t forget it’s the same woman underneath. The one who’s got your sister for a hostage.”
“Not likely to forget that, am I?” he snapped, a hint of sullen, useless anger showing. Even that reminded her of her brother. The look he used to have when he told her they had to help people, and she told him they had to help themselves. That wounded righteousness. “Why are you even here?”
“You know why. The Union’s weak. Enemies everywhere. If we can’t hold on to what we already have—”
“I’m asking why you care a shit. Sent you to the camps, didn’t they? If I was you, I’d laugh while the Union sunk in the fucking sea. Why are you here?”
Her mouth twisted to spit the answer. Because she owed a debt to His Eminence. Because blackmail and betrayal was the only profession she’d ever excelled at. Because you stand with the winners. She had half a dozen answers to hand. It was just that none of them were any good. Truth was, she could have done anything. Run off to the Far Country like she and Sibalt had always joked about. But the moment His Eminence said, “Westport,” she’d started packing. She was still standing there, mouth half-open but nothing quite coming out, when the door swung wide and Rosimiche strode in.
He hadn’t made quite the effort that she had. He wore a dressing gown left carelessly open to the waist and apparently nothing else, a slice of hairy belly and chest on display.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he blustered, not sounding sorry at all.
She forced out a smile. “No need to apologise. I know you are a busy man.”
“You’re right. I was busy fucking.”
Keeping that smile was an effort. “Congratulations.”
“I would like to get back to it, so let us be brief. Westport will be joining Styria. We share a coastline and a culture. One cannot argue with geography and history. I intend no disrespect.” A phrase people only use when they intend as much as possible.
“Disrespect doesn’t bother me,” she said, giving her voice the slightest edge. “But it might bother the Arch Lector.”
“There was a time when men would soil themselves at the mere mention of the Cripple.” Rosimiche sneered over at her as he poured himself a glass of wine. “But the Serpent of Talins is the power in Styria now. Murcatto has bound Styria together while the Union splits at the seams. Nobility and government at each other’s throats. And these Breakers…”
Disrespect didn’t bother her. But that he’d rub her face in it with his brothel and his dressing gown, knowing who she worked for? That was a concern. Seemed he was convinced the Styrian faction would win. Was trying to win their favour by humiliating the Union’s representative.
“One cannot have great growth without a little pain,” said Vick. “The Union’s industry is the envy of the world. Westport would be cutting herself off from her rightful place in the future. I’ve already spoken to several like-minded—”
“That bitch Mozolia? Ha! I hear Shudra already brought her back to his side. Better bribes than yours, I daresay. That’s the thing about women, they think with their cunts. Anything that doesn’t involve a cunt, they should have no opinion on. Fucking and babies, that’s all.”
“Don’t leave out the monthly bleed,” said Vick. “It’s a more versatile organ than men give it credit for.” She rarely allowed herself the luxury of disliking a person, any more than liking one. Either could be a weakness. But this bastard was testing her patience.
Rosimiche bristled, annoyed his ham-fisted coarseness hadn’t thrown her. He swaggered over, puffed up with scorn. “I hear Murcatto is sending Casamir dan Shenkt to the city.”
“I don’t jump at shadows. Perhaps I’ll panic when he gets here.”
“He may already have arrived.” He leaned close, so she could see the tiny specks of sweat on the bridge of his nose. “They say he not only kills those he is sent for, but eats them.” Damn, she regretted the dress now. She was starting to wish she’d worn a full suit of armour. “I wonder what he would eat first? Your liver, maybe?” He leered over at Tallow. “Perhaps he would start by butchering your errand boy?”
And suddenly, all she could think of was the look on her brother’s face, so hurt and so surprised, when the Practicals stepped from the shadows.
Rosimiche gave a little hoot of shock as Vick’s fist smashed into his face. She’d had her brass knuckles hidden behind her, but they were on her fist now. He clutched at the curtains as he stumbled back, blood flooding from his broken nose. She punched him in the side of the jaw with a sick crunch and he fumbled his glass, spraying wine over both of them. Her knuckles caught him across the top of the head as he fell, tearing the curtains down with him.
He hunched in a ball, gasping and spluttering, and she put her knee on his shoulder and rained down punches on any part of him she could reach. She lost count of the blows.
Someone caught her arm, nearly dragged her over. Tallow, wrestling her back. “You’ll fucking kill him!”
Vick tore free, breathing hard. Her dress was wine-stained. Her arm was blood-spotted. Her hair was tangled across her face and she dragged it back, oil between her fingers. It wasn’t a style well suited to beating a man. Rosimiche whimpered, still curled in a ball.
Tallow stared at him with those big, sad eyes. “What d’you do that for?”
She hadn’t even thought about it. Hadn’t weighed the risks or the consequences. Hadn’t even considered where to hit him, or how to make sure he couldn’t hit back. If he’d been a tougher man, things could’ve gone very badly wrong.
“Before you brush off His Eminence, Master Rosimiche, you should consider what you owe.” Her voice was harsh now. Slum debt collector rather than city lady. She tossed the paper Glokta had given her onto the floor by his knees. “Seven thousand scales and change to the Banking House of Valint and Balk. They don’t take their friendship with the Union as lightly as you.” She nudged the paper towards him with one sensible boot and he cringed as it brushed his bare leg. “His Eminence has arranged for them to call in the loan. They’ll take your houses. They’ll take your whores. Never mind Shenkt, they’ll have your fucking liver before they’re done.” Maybe some bullies need to be bullied, after all. She leaned down over him, hissing the words. “You’ll vote our way, you understand? Vote our way, or we crush you like a tick.”
“I’ll vode your way,” he blubbered, holding a trembling hand over his head. The little finger was broken sideways. “I’ll vode your way…”
Vick stalked off up the darkened street in a manner not at all suitable for her wine-stained dress, the ache in her clenched fist settled to a cold throbbing, the ache in her stiff hip getting steadily worse. Old injuries. A lifetime of them.
Tallow hurried to catch her up. “Guess you can’t say he didn’t ask for it.”
Silence.
“If you’d left it much longer, I might’ve punched him myself.”
Silence.
“I mean, he might not have noticed, but I would’ve punched him, still.”
“It was a mistake,” growled Vick. “You can’t change the fact the world’s full of arseholes. You can only change how you deal with them.”
He gave her a weak grin. “So you’re not carved from wood after all.”
She winced as she worked her sore fingers. “For damn sure my hand isn’t.”
“Could be worse. Now folk here’ll know what I’ve never doubted.” He gave her a stronger grin. “That you’re the wrong woman to mess with.”
She kept her face hard. It never ended well for the people she smiled at. “Truth is we’re making no progress. Two weeks left and we’ve lost more votes than we’ve gained. Solumeo bloody Shudra’s too good at this.” She rubbed absently at her bruised knuckles. “We have to take him off the board.”
“Aye, but…” Tallow leaned close to whisper. “You kill him, everyone’ll turn against us. Lorsen said so.”
“Whatever it costs,” said Vick. “That’s what His Eminence told me.”
Tallow had that worried look again. “Easy to say for him who won’t be paying.”
Some Things Never Heal
“I’m going to crush you like a tick,” growled Leo, snapping out a jab and forcing Jurand to parry. Just the sound of blades ringing made him feel better. By the dead, he’d missed the feeling of a sword in his hand.
“Like you crushed Stour Nightfall?” Jurand jabbed back and steel scraped again.
“That’s right.” Leo darted forward, almost cried out at a horribly familiar twinge in his wounded thigh, had to check and pretend it had been a feint, the disappointment almost sharper than the pain.
Jurand came on, grinning. “So you’ll bleed half to death, plainly be the worse fighter and only win because I’m an arrogant fool?”
Antaup, Glaward and Jin all chuckled, of course. Leo didn’t. The more time passed, the less he liked the way his friends told the tale. He preferred the more flattering story he’d read in a printed pamphlet the other day, where the peerless Young Lion had outfought Stour Nightfall, cracked a couple of jokes, then made him eat dirt in front of his uncle, all over the honour of a beautiful sorceress. In that version, there’d been no mention of his not being able to walk properly ever since.
After actual fighting, sparring had always been Leo’s favourite thing in the world. He tried to find the eager smile he used to wear when he was doing it. Like a cat playing with a mouse. Maybe he wasn’t as good with a sword as Stour Nightfall, but he’d always been a damn sight better than Jurand. He meant to prove it, however much it hurt.
“Ha!” He snapped Jurand’s blade one way then the other with a pair of fierce cuts. That was more like it! He lined up a lunge that would hurt even with a blunted blade, then gasped as his weight went onto his bad leg and it nearly folded under him.
It was shamefully easy for Jurand to step around his feeble thrust and slash at his exposed side. Leo twisted to parry, all off balance, gave a girlish scream as pain stabbed through his thigh, then his knee buckled and he went sprawling on the rush matting, clutching at his leg.
“Bloody hell! You all right?”
“No!” snarled Leo, slapping Jurand’s hand away. “The leg’s fucking worse than ever!” He was sick of pain. He was sick of sympathy. He was sick of being angry. He was sick of saying sorry for being angry. Then he saw the hurt on Jurand’s face and struggled to get a grip on himself. “I’m sorry. Always thought I could laugh off pain. But it’s all the time. I wake up with it. I go to sleep with it. Getting across a room is a struggle. Leaving something upstairs is a bloody disaster.”
“Let me help.” Glaward reached for him like a father for a crying toddler.
“Get your paws off me!” snapped Leo. “I’m not a bloody cripple!”
Jin and Antaup exchanged a worried glance. Nothing says, “I’m crippled,” louder than the furious insistence that you’re not, after all.
Leo caught Glaward’s big hand before he took it away and dragged himself up, hopping on his good leg. He stood a moment, breathing hard, then gritted his teeth and accepted the inevitable.
“Bring me the cane,” he snapped at Jurand.
“You know what’d make you feel better?” Glaward gave Leo’s shoulders a crushing squeeze which made him feel a good deal worse. “Getting back in the saddle.”
“That’s where you belong.” Antaup shook a fist. “Leading the men!”
“You need a battle to lead them into,” grumbled Leo. “Or should I lead them round and round the Lord Governor’s residence?”
“There’s always fighting in Starikland,” said Glaward. “Rebels are giving Lord Governor Skald a hell of a time lately. Daresay he’d be glad of the help.”
“And people hate the Styrians more than ever,” said Antaup. “I hear Westport’s a real powder keg. One spark and… poof.” He grinned as he mimed an explosion. “And the women over there…” He grinned wider as he mimed a bigger one.
Whitewater Jin combed worriedly at his ever-thickening beard. “Can’t say I fancy fighting the Serpent of Talins. She beat King Jezal three times and the bitch is stronger’n ever.”
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“Hardly took Stolicus himself to beat King Jezal,” snapped Leo. But the man had a point. The history of reckless charges into Styria was not good.
Glaward pushed out his bottom lip. “If it’s a weak enemy you’re after, I hear the Gurkish are obliging. The Empire’s broken into splinters. No Prophet. Priests and princes and chiefs and governors all fighting each other for control.”
“Like the North in the bad old days,” said Jin.
The Dogman’s stirring stories had all happened in the North in the bad old days. That was when names like Bethod, and Black Dow, and the Bloody-Nine were made. Names to stir the blood. “Is that so?” muttered Leo, clenching his fists.
Antaup’s brows were very high. “The Union’s got every claim on Dagoska.”
Leo raised his to match. “That city should be ours.”
The four of them glanced at each other, teetering between joking and serious.
“Can’t deny the weather’s good down there.” Jin patted Leo’s face with one big paw. “Get some colour back in those cheeks!”
Leo shoved the Northman’s hand away, but the idea had hold of him. Just the thought of being back on campaign was making his leg hurt less. Reclaiming Dagoska for the Union? Imagine the pamphlets they’d print of that story! They’d have to give him another triumph, and with a better reward than some gaudy sword this time around. “Jurand, how would we get soldiers down there, do you think…”
He was somewhat put out to find his oldest friend staring at him, horrified. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“What?”
Jurand glared at the others and, like mischievous schoolboys caught out by the headmaster, one by one they were forced into sheepish submission. “He hasn’t even healed from the last duel to the death and you’re falling over yourselves to talk him into another?”
“You sound like my bloody mother,” snapped Leo.
“Someone has to. It was bad enough when you were just the Young Lion. You’re the Lord Governor of Angland now! You have a province full of people counting on you. You can’t go charging off to any fight that’ll have you because you’re fucking bored!”
The Trouble with Peace Page 5