A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,204

shoulder and not quite but oh-so-nearly out tits, let alone the tools to win.

She slurped down some more of the thin wine they’d given her. Didn’t taste of much but it was already having an effect. Namely making the tips of her ears feel hot and sinking her ever deeper into jealous depression. They tell you drink makes you happy, but what they mean is it makes happy folk happier. They don’t tell you that it makes unhappy folk more fucking unhappy than ever.

She gave an unpleasantly sweet burp and scraped her tongue on her teeth. ‘Men,’ she muttered, helplessly.

‘I know,’ came a voice from beside her. ‘There’s no reasoning with them.’

By the dead, this one was even more beautiful than the other. Her skin had this sheen, like she wasn’t made of meat but some magic alloy of flesh and silver, every gesture finished off right to the tips of her long fingers like it was part of a dance, endlessly practised and utterly perfected.

‘Shit,’ breathed Rikke, unable to stop herself looking this woman up and down. ‘You have made some effort.’

‘Honestly, my maids made most of it. I only had to stand there.’

‘Maids? How many do you need?’

‘Only four, if they know their business. I very much like your shirt. It looks so comfortable. I wish I could wear one.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because there are a million different rules a lady of taste must observe. No one tells you what they are, but the penalties for breaking them can be most severe.’

‘That sounds a pain in the arse.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Must admit, I didn’t really know what to expect.’ Rikke plucked at her shirt. It had stuck around her armpits with the heat of all these people lying to each other. ‘I got new boots, too. Even combed my hair.’ She nervously twisted a stray tangle behind her ear. ‘But I slept out in a forest for a few weeks and it’s refused to behave ever since. How d’you get yours to do … all that?’

The woman leaned close. ‘It’s a wig.’

‘Is it?’ Rikke stared at those shining braids coiled and piled and swept up like a nest of spun gold. ‘Looks like hair, just … more so.’

‘It is hair. It just isn’t mine.’

‘Doesn’t yours grow?’

‘I clip it off.’

‘Or your maids do.’

‘Well … yes. Most of the women here are wearing wigs. It’s the fashion.’

She said that word, fashion, like it was an explanation for any kind of madness. ‘Everyone knows that?’

‘Everyone.’

‘So why are we whispering?’ whispered Rikke.

‘Well … because everyone knows it, but no one admits it.’

‘So … you shave your heads so you can wear a hat made of someone else’s hair, then lie about it?’ Rikke puffed out her cheeks. ‘Puts my worries in some fucking perspective.’

‘Not all of us have the courage for honesty.’

‘Not all of us have the wit to lie.’

The woman narrowed her eyes at Rikke. ‘I doubt you’re lacking wit.’

Rikke narrowed her eyes at the woman. ‘I doubt you’re lacking courage.’

She flinched a little, as if that somehow touched a sore spot, and changed the subject. ‘I very much like your necklaces, too.’

Rikke tucked her chin into her neck to peer down at the mass of charms she’d collected over the years. Some Gurkish ones, some Northern ones, some shaman’s teeth and this and that. She’d always felt you could never have too much good luck. Seemed a right lot of old junk now. She hooked the well-bitten dowel with her thumb and held it up. ‘This one’s to bite on if I have a fit. Hence the tooth marks.’

The woman raised her brows. ‘Beautiful and practical.’

‘These are runes. My friend Isern-i-Phail carved ’em. Supposed to keep me safe. Year I’ve had, though, I doubt they work.’

‘Well, they’re lovely, regardless. I never saw anything like them.’

She actually seemed to mean it, and she’d been kind, in a way. ‘Here.’ Rikke took the runes off and slipped them gently over the woman’s head. ‘Maybe they’ll work better for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Savine, and for once she meant it. It was such a simple, forthright gesture, she found herself disarmed. She could hardly remember the last time someone gave her something without expecting double the value in return.

‘I can get another,’ said the Northern girl, waving it away. ‘Looks much better on you. You’ve the shoulders for it.’

‘Fencing.’

‘What, sword-work?’

‘It’s fine exercise. Keeps me focused—’ She was caught off guard by a sudden memory of her sword punching through that man’s ribs, in Valbeck, in