A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,201

like a sinking ship, clattering off onto the floor beside it. He hefted the great thing all the way upright, leaving Kort oddly exposed in his chair, eyes wide and plump knees pressed fearfully together.

Broad took off his lenses, and folded them, and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Then he stepped forwards across the suddenly blurry office, a loose board creaking under his new boot.

‘I lost many things in Valbeck, Master Kort,’ came Savine’s voice, from what sounded like a long way off. ‘Several investments and several partners, a lovely sword-belt and an irritating but very capable face-maid. I also lost my patience.’

Broad stepped so close to Kort that their knees touched. He leaned down and put his hands on the arms of Kort’s chair, their noses just a few inches apart, close enough that the blur of his face resolved into an expression of extreme fear.

‘You displease me,’ said Savine. ‘And I am in a mood to see things which displease me broken. Broken in such a way that they will not go back together.’

Broad gripped the chair so hard that every joint in it groaned, breathing through his nostrils, like a bull. Bull Broad, they used to call him. He acted like he was only just keeping a grip on himself. Maybe he was.

‘Our agreement stands!’ squealed Kort, face turned away and his eyes screwed shut. ‘Of course it does, Lady Savine, how could it be otherwise?’

‘Oh, that is excellent news.’ And the bright tone of Savine’s voice was like a hand letting go of Broad’s throat.

‘You are the partner I always wanted!’ blathered Kort. ‘Our deal is forged from iron, just like my bridge—’

‘Your bridge?’

As Broad hooked his lenses back around his ears, Kort was giving a desperate, quivery smile. ‘Our bridge.’

‘Marvellous.’ Savine pulled on one of her gloves while Zuri slipped her hat back on with masterful precision and slid the hatpin home. ‘I would hate to have to send Master Broad to see you without my restraining influence. Who knows what might happen?’

Broad pulled shut the office door behind them with a gentle click. It was only when he took his hand from the knob he realised it was shaking.

Zuri leaned towards one of the clerks. ‘Master Kort may need a little help righting his desk.’

It seemed too bright outside as he followed Savine through the noise and bustle back to the carriage. ‘I’m not a coachman, am I?’ he muttered.

‘Much of what I do is to recognise talent,’ said Savine as she watched the workers struggle in the diggings. ‘I saw yours the moment you saved me from those men, on the barricade in Valbeck. Employing you as a coachman would be like employing a great artist to whitewash cottages. But don’t you feel better for it?’ She leaned close to murmur, ‘I know I do.’ And she glided off towards the carriage as if the whole world belonged to her.

‘You’re a natural at this, Master Broad.’ Zuri pressed something into his palm. A gold coin. A twenty-mark piece. More than he’d been paid for a month’s work at the brewery in Valbeck. More than he’d been paid for the assault in Musselia.

Broad looked up at her. ‘You believe in God, right?’

‘Oh, yes. Absolutely.’

‘Thought he was dead set against violence?’

‘If he was set that firmly against it …’ And Zuri smiled as she closed his aching fist around the coin and gave it a fond pat. ‘Why would he make men like you?’

Good Times

Leo felt a bit of an outsider at his own party.

It was staged in the Hall of Mirrors, the most amazing room in a palace full of amazing rooms, silvered Visserine glass covering every wall so the richest, noblest and most beautiful the Union had to offer stretched away in every direction into the dim distance.

Certainly the introductions went on for ever. Damp hands were shaken and powdered cheeks kissed until Leo’s lips were chapped and his fingers raw. It was a flood of congratulations, admirations, well-wishes. An onslaught of long names and weighty titles scarcely heard and straight away forgotten.

The Ambassador from Here or There. The Over-Secretary for Whatever. The niece of Lord What’s-his-Face. Some bald old smirker someone might’ve called the First of the Magi, who blurted some magical nonsense about defeating Eaters in a Circle of salted iron being just like fighting Stour Nightfall in a Circle of grass. Leo assumed it was a joke, and not a very funny one. His cheeks ached from returning