A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,48

forest for more grazing land anyway.’

A big wagon clattered past, rattling wheels ripping muck out of the road and showering it across the queue, and men grumbled and shouted abuse at the driver and the driver grumbled and shouted abuse at the men, and they all shuffled forwards another half-step.

‘My boys went off to other things. One died in Styria. One got married down near Keln, I heard. I had to borrow and I lost the house. Beautiful valley, it used to be.’

‘Aye, well,’ muttered Broad, feeling too sorry for himself to much enjoy anyone else doing the same. ‘Used to be gets you nowhere.’

‘True enough,’ said the old man, right away making Broad wish he’d never spoken. ‘Why, I remember back when I was a lad—’

‘Shut your fucking hole, y’old dunce,’ snapped the man in front of Broad.

He was a big bastard with a star-shaped scar on his cheek and a piece out of his ear. A veteran, no doubt. The anger in his voice set Broad’s heart thumping. A tickle of excitement.

The old man stared. ‘I’m not wanting to cause no offence—’

‘That’s why you should shut your fucking hole.’

Just stay silent. Just stay out of it. He should’ve learned that lesson, shouldn’t he? Learned it a dozen times and more. He’d promised Liddy. Just hours since he promised her. No more trouble.

‘Leave him be,’ growled Broad.

‘What’d you say?’

Broad took his lenses off and slipped them into his coat pocket, the queue behind the man’s frowning face made a blur.

‘I get it,’ said Broad. ‘You’re disappointed. Don’t reckon any man here had life turn out just the way he hoped, do you?’

‘What d’you know about my hopes?’

Took everything he had not to smash this bastard’s skull. But he’d promised Liddy. So Broad just took a step forwards, so the spit from his bared teeth flecked the man’s scarred cheek.

‘I know you’ll find none of ’em facing this way.’ He lifted his fist. Turned his finger. ‘Now turn around ’fore I put your fucking head through the wall.’

The man’s scarred cheek twitched and, just for a moment, Broad thought he might fight. For one beautiful moment, he thought he could stop clinging on, and let go. The first time he’d felt free since he came back from Styria. Well, apart from when he smashed Lennart Seldom’s face in.

Then the man’s bloodshot eyes found Broad’s fist. The tattoo on the back of it. He grumbled something and turned around. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then he pulled his shabby collar up, and cut out of the line, and stalked away.

‘Thanks for that,’ said the old man, knob on the front of his scrawny throat bobbing. ‘Ain’t many folk left will do the decent thing.’

‘The decent thing.’ Broad winced as he worked his fingers open. Seemed the only time they didn’t hurt was when his fists were clenched. ‘Don’t even know what that is any more.’

He’d seen a lot of different men at the end of these queues, choosing who got work and who got nothing. Most had developed a liking for watching folk squirm. It had been the same with the officers in Styria. It’s a rare man who’s made better by a bit of power.

The foreman at the door of Cadman’s Ales looked like one of the better ones, though, sat under a little awning with a big ledger in front of him. Grey-haired and solid, every movement slow and precise, like he’d taken his time and thought out just the right way to do it.

‘My name’s Gunnar Bull,’ lied Broad. He was a bad liar, and got the feeling this man saw straight through him.

‘I’m Malmer.’ He gave Broad a careful look up and down. ‘Got any experience with breweries?’

‘Guess I’ve drunk a fair bit o’ their output down the years.’ Broad tried a grin, but Malmer didn’t look like joining him. ‘But no experience with making it, no.’ Malmer just gave a slow nod, like he was used to disappointment. ‘I’ll work hard, though.’ He’d had but two hours’ work that week, raking out stables. This was his third stop today, and he couldn’t go home empty-handed. ‘I’ll shovel coal, or I’ll sweep floors, or … well … whatever you want. I’ll work hard, I promise you that.’

Malmer gave a sad little smile. ‘Promises are cheap, friend.’

‘Shitting hell! Is that Sergeant Broad?’

A lean man with a sandy beard and a stained apron had come striding out of the brewery, hands on hips.