The warehouse the Breakers once met in was a shell of blackened timbers. This was where they’d listened to Risinau, all huddling around his lies like a poor family around a one-coal fire, all staring off bright-eyed towards that better tomorrow.
And here it was. Tomorrow came, and it was much like yesterday. Just more so.
A couple of ragged boys were playing in an ash-black gutter, racing woodlice or some such. Broad squatted down beside them.
“You boys know a fellow called Sarlby?” They stared at him, big, round eyes in their thin, dirty faces, like enough to be twins. But then the starving all look the same. “He’d have a tattoo a bit like this one,” said Broad, holding out his fist, then he turned it over, and opened it, and showed them the silver coin glinting there.
“I’ve a tattoo like that.”
Broad smiled, but it was hard to keep smiling once he’d turned around. “Sarlby?” He hardly recognised the man he’d fought beside in Styria, stood beside in Valbeck. His back looked bent somehow, and his hair was clipped short and scattered with bald patches, and his face so lean you could almost see the little fibres shift in his cheeks.
“Gunnar Broad, back from the dead.” Sarlby’s voice had a throaty crackle to it. Seemed he’d aged ten years in the ten months since they last spoke. “Heard you were looking for me.”
“That I am.” Broad caught his hand and shook it, and thought how weak it felt. Like squeezing a glove full of dust.
“I thought maybe you was one of the ones they hanged,” said Sarlby.
“I thought maybe you was, too. Glad to see you’re not.”
Sarlby didn’t return the well-wishes. Didn’t look like he had much room for ’em. “I see you’ve prospered,” he said, giving Broad a long look up and down.
Sad thing was he’d picked the most threadbare clothes he could find. Maybe because he didn’t want to stand out. Maybe because he was shamed about why he did. Even so, he looked like a rich man among these ghosts and beggars. He’d forgotten how bad it could get. Strange, how quick you forget.
No matter how hungry Sarlby looked, he ate slow. As if it hurt.
He was a shred of the man he’d been. A ghost of himself. Didn’t matter how strong you were, or tough, or brave, this life would grind you down soon enough. The work, and the smoke, and the dust, and the sickness, and the rank water and the rotten food and the bad living and the never enough of anything.
“So where you living now?” asked Sarlby, out the side of his mouth as he chewed.
“In Ostenhorm.”
“Angland, eh? Got work up there, then?”
“Some.”
“Not mill work, I reckon.”
“No.” Broad thought about lying. But he owed Sarlby the truth, didn’t he? Owed him that much. “Been working for Savine dan Brock.”
Sarlby gave an ugly snort. “Savine dan Glokta, you mean. The Darling o’ the Slums! You ever see that pamphlet of hers?” He laughed, dry and choking, and it turned into a cough, and he had to wash it down with the thin ale they served here. “How fucking stupid does she think we are?”
“From what I’ve seen she’s a pretty good judge,” said Broad. “Of that and most everything else.”
“And what does the likes o’ you do for the likes o’ her? Turn your hand to millinery, did you? Or have you gone from poacher to gamekeeper?”
“I’ve done what I had to,” growled Broad, feeling the anger coming up hot. “I’ve got a wife and daughter to take care of. They’re happy for the first time in years. You think I’m saying sorry for that?”
Sarlby held his eye. “Didn’t ask you to. Just want to know where you stand, is all.”
Broad realised he’d got out of his chair and was bent over the table, clenched fists trembling on the wood and his lips curled back. Realised everyone in the wretched little place was looking at him. He blinked, and slowly lowered himself again, and made his fists unclench. Seemed an effort. Like there were barrel-bands around his hands, holding ’em shut.
“I tried it your way.” He settled his lenses back on his sweaty nose, made himself breathe slow. “Look where it got us.”
“All we done was take a first step. There’ll be many more, on the road to freedom. And much more lost along the way, I don’t doubt. Might be I’ll never see the end of it.” Sarlby had the light of belief in his eyes. Or maybe the light of madness. Maybe there was no difference. “But the day’ll come when my kind will. Depend on that, Bull Broad. There’s a Great Change coming.”
“So… you’re still with the Breakers?”
Sarlby slowly forked up the last of his food, and slowly chewed it, and looked at Broad with narrowed eyes. “What’s it to you whether I’m with ’em or not?”
Broad paused. Felt like huddling in the trenches at Borletta, his hand on the ladder, waiting to rush at the walls. One more step, then there’d be no going back. He whispered it. “I need to talk to the Weaver.”
He saw the muscles on the side of Sarlby’s gaunt face squirm as he clenched his teeth. “Well, you’ve got some fucking nerve. Savine dan Glokta’s errand boy, come back here all fat and shiny, asking to see the Weaver.”
“No one ever accused me o’ too little nerve.”
Sarlby barked out a joyless laugh. “No. No one accused you o’ that.” There was silence as he slowly tore off a piece of bread, and slowly swept it around in the gravy on his plate till he’d soaked up every drop. “But I got to warn you, the cool heads all died wi’ Malmer. Feelings are running hot.”
“I need to talk to the Breakers, Sarlby. Cool heads or not.”
“I can take you to ’em.” Sarlby slowly chewed, slowly swallowed, slowly sat back. “But what happens after ain’t up to me.”
Grown Up
“Where’s the damn booze?” bellowed Jin. He tossed his bag onto a richly upholstered chair and it slid to the floor while he threw open a chest big enough for Leo to have lain down flat in, rooting about inside.
“I’ll say this for the Lady Governor,” murmured Jurand, heels clicking as he crossed the floor and gave the shimmering drapes a stroke, “she can certainly pick a set of rooms.” He nudged the tall windows open, a warm breeze flowing in along with the slap of water and the excited Styrian babble of Sipani’s evening crowds.
“How many do we have?” asked Antaup, flicking back that curling forelock as he pulled open a communicating door to another salon full of mirrored luxury.
“Must be five at the least.” Glaward gazed up at the ceiling, which was painted with a lot of smug-looking bastards eating grapes. “Place is like a palace.”
“Like a palace,” grunted Leo, frowning at two carved cherubs among the gilded moulding. He supposed he was the Lord Governor of Angland and should demand the best of everything. His wife always did. But in truth, luxury made him nervous. Couldn’t help thinking what the Dogman might’ve made of it. Shook his head and murmured, “State o’ this,” and given a little grunt of a laugh, most likely. Leo was carved from the same wood. Always felt happier sleeping in hay than on silk, eating with his hands than with silverware, sitting around a campaign campfire than a dining table. He kept worrying he’d blunder into something and break it.
“Here it bloody is!” Jin had flung back the doors of a vast cabinet to show a collection of spirits big enough for a small but very high-priced tavern. “Look at this!” And he rubbed his hands and set to rifling through the bottles.
Antaup, meanwhile, had flopped back onto the bed with his arms out wide and a great grin across his face. “Bloody hell, Leo, I swear you’ve bagged the one woman in the world who could change my mind about marriage. I mean, sending you off? To Sipani? To have fun? With the boys?” He barked a disbelieving laugh at the painted ceiling.
“Well, the wedding all happened in such a rush—”
“A reckless charge, might you say?” asked Jurand, raising one brow.
“They’re what I’m known for,” said Leo. “No time to give you bastards the send-off you
deserve.” He rubbed nervously at his sweaty throat. “And it won’t be all fun.”
That caused an awkward silence, glass clinking in the background. “When are you meeting the great King Jappo?” asked Glaward.
“After sundown.”
Antaup sat up. “Rubs me the wrong way, making nice with one of the Union’s worst enemies.” And he punched a pillow as if it was King Jappo’s face.
“You know what Stolicus said about enemies, don’t you?” said Jurand.
“To kill an enemy is cause for relief,” intoned Leo, in that pompous way Jurand trotted out the quotes. “To make a friend of him is cause for celebration.”
“You actually read it?”
“Not a bloody page.”
“Can you read?” asked Glaward, slinging a heavy arm around Leo’s shoulders.
“I can’t,” said Jin, pulling a cork with a thwop and sniffing at the contents. “And I’m fucking proud of it.”
Jurand rolled his eyes. “Can we even find our way to Cardotti’s? This bloody city’s a warren.”
“A baking warren,” said Glaward, sniffing at the damp circle under one armpit.
“Never fear.” Antaup slipped a dog-eared book from inside his jacket. “I’ve got Glanhorm’s famous guide to Sipani. And I can read. When I’ve nothing better to do.” He unfolded a cumbersome map from the inside cover and squinted at it in some confusion.
“Does it show the landmarks, and so on?” asked Glaward.
“Points of historical interest?” Jurand leaned over Antaup’s shoulder to turn the map all the way around. “I have to see the ruins of the aqueduct while I’m here—”
“Glanhorm doesn’t cover any of that shit.” Antaup set his brows waggling. “Just the brothels. And Cardotti’s House of Leisure is first on the fuck list.”
Jurand rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “That I have lived to hear the words ‘fuck’ and ‘list’ spoken in sequence.” And he walked to the window and out onto the balcony.
“Haven’t you bloody poured anything yet?” grunted Glaward, trying to shoulder Jin out of the way. They jostled each other, then Jin caught Glaward’s head in a lock and they started to wrestle, barging into the cabinet and making the bottles rattle. With sorry inevitability, they worked their way down onto the carpet and started to roll about, snapping and grunting.
“D’you yield?” snarled Glaward.
“Fuck yourself!” groaned Jin.
Antaup stepped over them and plucked down a bottle, peering at the label. Leo’s leg ruled out wrestling, sadly. He followed Jurand through the stirring drapes.
The sun was sinking towards the hazy maze of roofs, glinting on the water, sending pink and purple and orange flares through the heavens, bringing a hint of silver to the edges of the clouds. Below, outside some tea shop, or winery, or husk-house, or whatever it was they had here, a ragged violinist was wending between the tables, trying to saw a few coppers from the masked revellers with some sad little melody. It was sticky-hot, but there was a breeze that tasted mostly of spice and adventure and just a little canal rot, stirring the hair about Jurand’s face. The man simply didn’t get any less handsome. That proud, sad, thoughtful expression belonged on some statue from the Old Empire.
“Beautiful,” murmured Leo.
“I know you don’t think much of Styria, but even you can’t deny…” And Jurand planted his hands on the pitted parapet and looked out at the sunset. “It’s a hell of a romantic setting.”
“The very place for one last revel before a marriage.”
“The marriage happened already, remember?”
Leo frowned as he turned his wedding ring gently around on his finger. “Hard to forget.”
Things hadn’t been quite the same between him and Jurand since he came back from Adua. Since he came back with Savine. Some… spark missing. He’d done nothing wrong, but he felt he’d let Jurand down somehow. Broken some unspoken promise between them. He looked at Leo now, that earnest, open look that always seemed to catch him right in the heart.
“Are you sure about all this?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Rebellion?”
Leo gave an impatient twitch. “We’ve been over it.” A thousand times, he’d been over it. He was tired of the arguments. “I know you’re a thinker, but sooner or later a man has to get on and do.”
“Can we trust Isher and the rest? They’re not soldiers. They’ve never fought a battle—”
“That’s why they made me the leader.”
“I wish we weren’t keeping it from your mother. She could be a hell of an asset—”
“The time comes for a man to leave his mother at home, Jurand. Along with his doubts.”
“I suppose…”
Leo stepped up to lean on the parapet beside him. Close, so their shoulders were almost touching. Almost, but with a warm chink of Styrian sky between them. “Look, King Orso’s no soldier, either. We’ll be taking him by surprise. And when it comes to advice on strategy, I’ve got you!” And he gave Jurand’s shoulder a nudge with his and brought a flicker of a smile to his face. “Couldn’t ask for a better man beside me! And lots of allies. Rikke. Stour. Who knows, maybe the Styrians, too.” He turned to look out across the city. “If I don’t make a bloody mess of it tonight…”
“Come on.” Jurand’s turn to give Leo a nudge. “You know you can be charm itself when you want to be. Just flash that smile of yours and King Jappo will be putty in your hands.” Leo grinned in spite of himself and Jurand grinned back. “That’s the one.”
A silence, then, while the violin played on, and a pleasure-barge drifted down the grey-green canal below them, masked merrymakers lazing in each other’s arms on the upper deck. One of those moments you hope might last for ever.
“I need… to thank you,” said Leo. The words were hard to find, but he had to try. “For being such a good friend. So patient and so loyal and… I know I can be a little… self-absorbed.” Jurand gave a wry snort at that. “I just hope you know how much I love—” That word felt oddly dangerous, of a sudden. But he couldn’t think of another that fitted. “All of you,” he added quickly, waving an arm towards the doorway, Jin and Glaward’s growling coming faint from beyond. “Glaward’s my conscience, and Jin’s my courage, and Antaup’s my charm, and you’re my—”
“Awkwardness?”
“I was going to say brains. I know how many disasters you’ve steered me clear of. Maybe you think I don’t notice, or I’m not grateful but, well… I do, and I am. I’m just… a lot better at taking credit than giving it, I reckon. You’ve always been there.” He winced. “I’m not sure… I can say the same.”
“’Course you can.” Jurand’s eyelashes fluttered as he looked away. As if he was blinking back tears. “Life has leaders and followers, we all know that. I’d follow you into hell, Leo.” And he looked back, and reached up, not that far, and put his hand on Leo’s shoulder.
They’d touched each other a thousand times. They’d wrestled and sparred and hugged. But there was something different about that touch. More than one old friend supporting another. Far more. Jurand’s hand didn’t just rest there. It squeezed, ever so lightly, and Leo felt a strange need to tilt his head and press his cheek against it. Take that hand and hold it to his face, to his heart, to his mouth.
Jurand was looking him right in the eyes, lips slightly parted. “I want to say…”
Leo’s throat felt suddenly very tight. “Yes?”
“I… need… to say—”
“Here you go!” Antaup blundered out through the window, wedged a glass into Leo’s hand, another into Jurand’s, spattering wine on the balcony, making them both take an awkward little step apart. “Our boy’s all grown up!” And he planted a slobbery kiss on Leo’s cheek, and ruffled Jurand’s already ruffled hair, and ducked back inside.
Now the violinist had seen them, prancing over to the bridge just below their balcony, grinning up and hacking out a jauntier, more marshal theme. Beside the winery, two fellows s
tarted up a noisy argument. Typical Styrians, all swagger and no action.
“Well,” said Jurand, lifting his glass. “To the married man, eh?” And he slugged back his wine, the knobble on his long, slender throat bobbing. “Time comes we all have to grow up.” He sounded rather bitter about it as he wiped his mouth. “Put our silly dreams aside.”
“Aye.” Leo took a mouthful himself. “Reckon we should get ready. If I make a mess of this, Savine’ll bloody kill me.”
The spell was broken. The strange moment was gone. Leo had to admit he was relieved.
Relieved and crushed, both at once.
Grown Up
“My big brother!” And she held her arms out to Orso. “Come all the way to Sipani just to visit me!”
“Carlot. Bloody hell, it’s good to see you.” And it was. She was a grown woman, of course, with a definite hint of their father about her strong cleft chin, but all he could see was the girl who used to chase him around the palace gardens in happier times. He hugged her tight, and held her head against his shoulder, and had to manfully fight down a sudden urge to cry.
She frowned as she held him out at arm’s length. “You look a little… pale.”
“Rough seas on the way over,” he lied. “Being king suits me.”
She saw right through him, as always. “It never suited father. It ground all the fun out of him.”
“Well, I’m not him.” Though he feared in fact he might be. “It’s brought out the responsible servant of the people in me.”
“Who would have thought you were hiding one of those?” She lowered her voice. “You must tell me what urgent business has dragged the King of the Union across the Circle Sea.”
“I would if I could.”
“Let me help, Orso. I do nothing here but choose wallpaper.”
“And you’ve done a simply marvellous job of it,” he said, glancing admiringly about the room. “You must choose some for me.”
She punched him on the arm. “Come on! I never get any bloody excitement.”
He wanted to tell her how much trouble he was in. To moan that his subjects were united only in contempt for their king. To blurt out that a conspiracy was building against him.
The Trouble with Peace Page 35