A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,218

three black-clothed men shoved through the crowd. The bearded heckler saw them, spun about, but another two were coming the other way. The crowd surged back as if from a plague victim as the Practicals caught him, shoved him down, started forcing a stained bag over his head.

‘No!’ hissed Liddy. Was only then Broad noticed her hand on his arm. Both hands, dragging him back as hard as she could. ‘No more trouble!’ Was only then he noticed his every muscle was stiff and his fists clenched trembling tight and his lips curled back in a snarl.

‘Don’t you dare fuck this up for us!’ May had slipped in front of him, was stabbing her pointed finger in his face. ‘Not when we just got right!’ There were tears glimmering in her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare!’

Broad took a deep breath and let it shudder away. Watched as three Practicals manhandled that poor fool through the crowd. Could’ve been him, dragged off to the House of Questions. Would’ve been him, gibbetted beside the road to Valbeck, if it hadn’t been for May and the biggest slice of luck an undeserving man ever got.

‘I won’t, May.’ He felt tears in his own eyes then, eased his lenses down his nose to rub them dry. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You promised us,’ hissed Liddy, dragging him back towards the tramping men, and the high-stepping horses, and the flags and shiny metal. ‘No more trouble.’

‘No more trouble.’ Broad put his arms around his wife and his daughter, and held them both close. ‘I promise.’

But his fists were still so tightly clenched, they ached.

Savine had always loved grand events. The bigger the crowd, the more opportunities to turn strangers into acquaintances, acquaintances into friends, and friends into money. They were a chance to be seen, and therefore admired, and therefore kept powerful. Because power is a mountain one is always sliding down. A mountain one must claw and strive and scramble always to keep one’s place upon, let alone to climb higher. A mountain made not of rock, but of everyone else’s writhing, struggling, grasping bodies.

Events came no grander than this one. A holiday had been declared for the working folk of Adua and the furnaces had been doused and the vapours cleared. It was warm for the start of winter, the sun shining crisp upon the revelling crowds. Those of the great and good who had not joined the famous victors on their parade were gathered here at the end of the route, along with a multitude of the small and bad, in the Square of Marshals.

Savine was at the heart of it, at one end of the purple-swagged royal box, along with most of the Closed Council, a legion of toadying footmen and stern Knights of the Body, not to mention Their August Majesties the High King and Queen of the Union. Terez stood painfully erect at the very pinnacle of power, honouring the crowd with the occasional scornful wave, unquestioned mistress of all she saw. For once, Savine did not need to make an effort to be jealous. That could have been her place. Should have been. Almost had been.

The king glanced sideways and, just for an instant, caught Savine’s eye. That same sad, needy look, and she stared down at her very fine shoes. She had no idea why she should be embarrassed. She was not the one who had fucked her mother and abandoned the results. But still her face burned.

She had always loved grand events, but she hated everything and everyone today, and herself most of all. She missed Orso like an arm cut off. She would think of some observation only he would understand, and smile, and turn to Zuri to arrange a meeting … and then that sappy pang of loss all over again.

Leo dan Brock had been a pleasing diversion. From the neck down, he was astonishing. When she opened his shirt, she had spent a moment just staring. It was as if he was carved from flesh-coloured marble by a sculptor intent on exaggeration. There had been a moment when he lifted her clean off her feet so effortlessly, it felt as if she might never come down …

But in the end, what truly makes a man is above the neck. The instant she made a joke, Orso would have pounced upon it, unfolded and developed it, tossed it back delightfully changed. Leo scarcely realised a joke had been made. Like that new invention Curnsbick was always prattling about,