A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,216

He’d expected him to be a real wilting dandy and, yes, you wouldn’t have called him a man’s man, but there was no doubt he was a damn good-looking fellow, and he turned out to be really quite thoughtful and generous. A hard man to hate. Leo was learning that people and their reputations rarely had much in common. He found himself, ironically, joining the Arch Lector in trying to inflate Orso’s achievements.

‘You liberated Valbeck, Your Highness. Put down a bloody rebellion.’

‘I surrounded a city and had a very good breakfast, discussed terms and had a very good lunch, accepted a surrender and had a very good dinner, then found the majority of my prisoners already hanged when I got up the next morning. My own fault for being a late riser, I suppose.’

‘But you’re the heir to the throne—’

‘My parents might agree on nothing else, but they do agree on that. Being heir to the throne takes no effort, however. Believe me, I know. You, on the other hand, have risked your life.’ He waved a hand towards the scar on Leo’s face. ‘Covered with the red marks of bravery! My most serious wound was sustained when I struck my head getting out of bed dead drunk. The bleeding was quite spectacular, to be fair, but the glory was minimal.’

Leo’s eye was caught by a knot of dark-skinned beggars in the crowd. ‘Lot of brown faces around,’ he said, frowning.

‘Troubles in the South. Refugees are pouring across the Circle Sea, seeking new lives.’

‘Fought a war against the Gurkish thirty years ago, didn’t we? You sure they can be trusted?’

‘Some can and some can’t, I would’ve thought. Just like Northmen. Just like anyone. And they’re not all from Gurkhul.’

‘Where, then?’

‘All across the South,’ said Orso. ‘Kadir, Taurish, Yashtavit, Dagoska. Dozens of languages. Dozens of cultures. And they’ve chosen to come here. Makes you proud, doesn’t it?’

‘If you say so.’ Leo knew nothing about those places except that he didn’t want the Union to become one of them. He took no pride in the watering down of his homeland’s character. ‘Don’t you worry there might be …’ Leo felt a need to lower his voice. ‘Eaters among them?’

‘I’m not sure cannibal sorcerers are one of our most pressing problems.’

‘Some of them can steal people’s faces. That’s what I heard.’ Leo craned around to frown at those Southerners again. ‘They can disguise themselves as anyone.’

‘Then wouldn’t a pale face make a better disguise than a dark?’

Leo frowned. He hadn’t actually thought of that. ‘Just … hardly feels like the Union’s the Union any more.’

‘Surely the great strength of the Union has always been its variety. That’s why they call it a Union.’

‘Huh,’ grunted Leo. Orso would think that. He was a half-Styrian mongrel himself. Something landed in his lap. A flower. Looking towards an upstairs window, he saw a group of smiling girls, tossing down more. He grinned and blew them a kiss. Seemed the only decent thing to do.

‘Adua appears to be enjoying you,’ said Orso. ‘How have you been enjoying it?’

‘Can’t say I take to the vapours. And the politics is pretty murky, too. Since the Closed Council didn’t help fight the war, I’d hoped they’d at least help pay for it.’

‘Easier to open a gate to hell, in my experience, than the king’s purse.’

‘A royal waste of my time. But, on the other hand … I met a woman. Never met one quite like her before.’

Orso gave a sharp little laugh. ‘Fancy that. So did I.’

‘Beautiful. Clever. Sharp as a dagger and fierce as a tiger.’

Another laugh. ‘Fancy that. So did I.’

‘But so poised, so elegant … every inch the lady.’

Orso laughed louder than ever. ‘Well, there we differ. Does your paragon of womanhood have a name?’

Leo cleared his throat. ‘Reckon I’d better not say.’

‘Went further than just a meeting, then?’

‘She took me to …’ No, no, that sounded too weak. ‘I met her, I should say, at the office of some writer.’ The prince’s face gave an ugly twitch. Even less keen on books than Leo was, maybe. ‘But … she didn’t invite me to read, if you take my meaning.’

‘I think I can deduce it.’ Orso’s voice sounded strangled, but Leo had never been much good at finding the hidden meaning in things. He was a straightforward fellow. So he carried on. Straightforwardly. Was that a word?

‘A night of passion … with a beautiful and mysterious older woman.’

‘Surely every young man’s dream,’ grated Orso.

‘Yes, except …’ Leo