A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,40

up a hand to block the savage glare. ‘I thought I said you shouldn’t call me that.’ He lifted his head, but it began to throb in a most unpleasing manner, so he let it drop. ‘And how dare you presume to wake the heir to the throne?’

‘I thought you said I shouldn’t call you that?’

‘I’m being inconsistent. The Crown Prince of the Union—

‘And Talins, theoretically.’

‘—can be as inconsistent as he damn well pleases.’ Orso’s fumbling hand closed about the handle of a jug and he lifted it and took a swig, realised too late there was stale ale in it rather than water, and spat it over the wall in a mist.

‘Your Highness will have to be inconsistent while dressing,’ said Tunny. ‘There’s news.’

Orso looked for water, couldn’t see any, and swigged down the dregs of the ale after all. ‘Don’t tell me that blonde from yesterday was carrying the cock-rot.’ He tossed the jug rolling across the floor and sagged back into bed. ‘The last thing I need is another dose—’

‘Scale Ironhand and his Northmen have invaded the Protectorate. They’ve burned Uffrith.’

‘Pfft.’ Orso thought about grabbing a shoe and throwing it at Tunny but decided he couldn’t be arsed, so he rolled over and cuddled up to that girl, what’s-her-name, pressing his half-hard cock into the small of her back where it was warm and making her give a semi-conscious mew of upset. ‘That isn’t funny.’

‘You’re damn right it isn’t. Lady Governor Finree dan Brock is fighting a brave rearguard action along with the Dogman and her son Leo, the big, bold Young Lion, but they’re giving ground before the terror of the Northmen and their fearsome champion Stour Nightfall, the Great Wolf, who’s sworn to drive the damn Southerners out of Angland.’ There was a brief silence. ‘We’re the damn Southerners, in case you’re wondering.’

Orso managed to get both eyes open at once. ‘You’re not joking?’

‘You’ll know when I’m joking because Your Highness will be laughing.’

‘What the—’ Orso felt a sudden stab of … something. Worry? Excitement? Anger? Jealousy? Some feeling, anyway. It was so long since he really had one it was like a spur in his backside. He scrambled out of bed, got one foot tangled in the sheet, kicked it free and accidently kicked what’s-her-name in the back.

‘The hell?’ she mumbled as she sat up, trying to claw hair tangled with wine out of her face.

‘Sorry!’ said Orso. ‘Terribly sorry, but … Northmen! Invaded! Lions and wolves and whatever!’ He grabbed his little box and took a pinch of pearl dust up each nostril. Just to blow away the cobwebs. ‘Someone should bloody do something.’ As the burning at the back of his nose faded, that feeling became sharper. So sharp it made him shiver, the hairs on the backs of his arms standing up. You could try doing something to be proud of, his mother had said. Might this be his chance? He had scarcely even realised how much he wanted one.

He looked from the empty bottles about the bed to Tunny, standing against the wall with his arms folded. ‘I should do something! Draw me a bath!’

‘Hildi’s already doing it.’

‘Where are my trousers?’ Tunny tossed them over and Orso snatched them from the air. ‘I have to see my father right away! Is it Monday?’

‘Tuesday,’ said Tunny as he swaggered from the room. ‘He’ll be fencing.’

‘Then see if you can find my steels as well!’ bellowed Orso as the door swung shut.

‘For pity’s sake, shut up,’ moaned what’s-her-face, pulling the covers over her head.

‘One touch a piece!’ The king grinned hugely as he offered his hand.

‘Well fought, Your Majesty.’ Orso let his father pull him to his feet, rubbing at his bruised ribs as he stooped to retrieve his fallen steel. He had to admit he was feeling the pace. His padded jacket seemed rather more padded than the last time he wore it. Perhaps his mother was right and he had passed the age where he could get away with anything. One sober day a week might be a good idea, from now on. A morning a week, at any rate.

But circumstances always conspired to stop him doing the right thing. By then, one of the servants was floating across the perfectly manicured lawn with two glasses on his polished tray.

The king wedged his long steel under his arm to sweep one up. ‘A little refreshment?’

‘You know I never drink before lunch,’ said Orso.

They looked at each other for a moment,