A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,195

siblings. They are mired in the past. Blinkered to the future. But I like to stop off in Adua whenever I can. Try to make sure no one is destroying what I have built.’ He narrowed his eyes across the bay, crammed with vessels of every shape, size and design. ‘People’s capacity for self-harm never ceases to amaze me. They love to find their own path, even if it clearly leads off a cliff. And the Union has many enemies.’

Rikke raised her brows at the endless city. ‘Who’d be fool enough to make war on this?’

‘The Gurkish, before their empire collapsed like an undercooked meringue. And Bethod, against my advice. Then Black Dow, against my advice. Then Black Calder. Against my advice.’

‘Seems your advice ain’t as popular as you’d like,’ said Rikke, glancing sideways.

Bayaz gave a disappointed sigh, like the governess in Ostenhorm when she tried to explain to Rikke what deportment was. ‘People must sometimes be allowed to make their own mistakes.’

She shielded her eyes against the spray as they cut through the mad confusion of shipping towards the swarming docks. She could hear the faint din of voices bellowing and wagons rumbling and cargo hitting the wharves.

‘How many live here?’ she whispered.

‘Thousands.’ The First of the Magi shrugged. ‘Millions maybe, now, building upwards and bloating outwards every day. Eclipsing even the great cities of old for scale, if not for splendour. People from every land within the Circle of the World. Dark-skinned Kantics fleeing the chaos in Gurkhul, pale Northmen seeking work and people of the Old Empire seeking new beginnings. Adventurers from the new kingdom of Styria, traders from the Thousand Isles, people of Suljuk, and Thond, where they worship the sun. More than can be counted – living, dying, working, breeding, climbing one upon the other. Welcome,’ and Bayaz spread his arms wide to encompass the monstrous, the beautiful, the endless city, ‘to civilisation!’

Jurand stared towards Adua, eyes narrowed against the spray. ‘By the Fates, the city’s grown.’

‘Hugely,’ said Leo. Yet it somehow looked smaller than the last time he visited. Then he’d been just the rural-mannered young son of a lord governor. Now he was a lord governor himself, who’d beaten a great warrior in single combat, saved the Protectorate and won a famous victory for the king single-handed.

No doubt Adua had grown. But Leo dan Brock had grown more.

He found himself glancing sideways. Where he was always glancing, against his better judgement. Towards Rikke. If she’d been beside him, he could’ve pointed out all the great sights of the city. Casamir’s Wall, and Arnault’s. The House of the Maker, the dome of the Lords’ Round. The Three Farms with the plumes of smoke from its new manufactories. They could’ve been enjoying this together, if she hadn’t been such a sulky, stubborn bitch. He’d nearly died in the Circle for her. And she treated him like a traitor.

He was cranking himself up to bitter outrage when he caught sight of her, waving her arms in that mad way she had while she talked to some bald old man, and all he felt was sad, and guilty, as if he’d wandered off the right path and couldn’t find his way back. The truth was, he bloody missed her. Wasn’t long ago he’d said he loved her, and he’d at least half meant it. But he was damned if he was apologising. It should be her begging forgiveness—

She glanced over and he only just looked away in time. If she saw him looking, she’d treat it like a petty victory. Everything was so petty with her. Why couldn’t she just forgive him so they could go back to how things were?

‘Looks like they’ve sent a welcoming committee,’ said Glaward, pointing towards the thronging wharves.

Leo perked up at that. A decent crowd had gathered on the quay under a great banner marked with the golden sun of the Union and another with the crossed hammers of Angland. Armoured men sat on horseback in a perfect row, wearing the purple cloaks of Knights of the Body. An honour guard from the king! At the front was a man with monstrous shoulders and an even more monstrous neck, his hair clipped to grey stubble.

Jurand was leaning dangerously far over the rail to see. ‘Is that … Bremer dan Gorst?’

Leo squinted towards him as the ship slid in closer to the harbour, captain squawking out commands and the sailors swarming to obey. ‘Do you know,’ he said, perking up further, ‘I