A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,67

one of his playing cards, folded it and held it out. ‘Could you take this to the usual place, Hildi?’ And he gave her a meaningful waggle of the brows. ‘An invitation to Sworbreck’s office. Ten bits in it if you’re quick.’

‘Twenty and it’ll be there yesterday,’ said Hildi, hopping off the settle and sticking her chin up at him as though it was a loaded flatbow and she a highwayman.

‘Twenty it is, you bandit. How much do I owe you now?’

‘Seventeen marks and eight bits.’

‘Already?’

‘I’m never wrong about numbers,’ she said solemnly.

‘She’s never wrong about numbers,’ said Tunny, shifting his chagga pipe from one side of his mouth to the other using only tongue and teeth.

‘She is never wrong about numbers,’ said Orso, counting out the coins.

Hildi snatched them from his hand, stuck them into her cap, twisted it down hard onto her mass of blonde curls and slipped out through the door nimbly as a cat.

‘How’re we going to play with a card missing?’ grumbled Yolk.

‘You manage it without looks, wits or money,’ said Orso, sorting through his hand again. ‘You can manage without one card.’

Sore Spots

‘How the hell did you get that bruise?’

Savine put her fingers to her mouth. She had powdered carefully but her mother, while oblivious to so much, had an uncanny eye for injuries. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing. I was fencing. With Bremer dan Gorst.’

‘Fencing? With Bremer dan bloody Gorst? For such a clever girl, you do some witless things.’

Savine winced at the pain through her ribs as she shifted in her chair. ‘I’ll admit it was far from my best idea.’

‘Does your father know about this?’

‘He presided over it. I’ve a feeling he was thoroughly tickled, in fact.’

‘He bloody would be. The only thing he enjoys more than his own suffering is other people’s. Why you play with swords is quite beyond me.’

‘It’s fine exercise. Keeps me strong. Keeps me … focused.’

‘What you need is less focus and more fun.’ Her mother drained her glass with a practised toss of her head. ‘You should get married.’

‘So I can be ordered around by some idiot? Thank you, no.’

‘Then don’t marry an idiot. Marry a rich man who likes men. At least you’ll have that in common.’ She peered thoughtfully up at the ceiling. ‘Or at least marry a pretty idiot, then you’ve something nice to look at while you regret it.’

‘That was your plan, was it?’ asked Savine, sipping her own drink.

‘Actually yes, but when I got to the counter, all they had left was the crippled mastermind.’

Savine laughed so suddenly she blew wine out of her nose, had to jerk from her chair so she didn’t spatter it down her dress, and ended up flicking it on the carpet in a most unladylike manner.

Her mother chuckled at her discomfort, then sighed. ‘And do you know?’ She gave the monstrous diamond on her wedding band a lopsided grin. ‘I haven’t regretted a day of it.’

There was a sharp knock at the door and Zuri slipped through with the book under one arm, leaning close to murmur in Savine’s ear. ‘A few decisions to be made, my lady. Then dinner with the loose-tongued but tight-fisted Tilde dan Rucksted and her husband. An opportunity to discuss their investment in Master Kort’s canal.’

Savine’s turn to sigh. Another of the lord marshal’s tales of derring-do on the frontier and she might be obliged to drown herself in the canal rather than extend it. But business was business.

Savine’s mother was pouring herself another glass of wine. ‘What is it, darling?’

‘I have to dress for dinner.’

‘Now?’ She stuck her lip out in a needy pout. ‘How bloody tiresome. I was hoping we could talk tonight.’

‘We just did.’

‘Not like we used to, Savine! I’ve a hundred cutting comments just as funny as the last one.’

Savine set down her glass and followed Zuri to the door. ‘Keep them dry for next time, Mother. It’s business.’

‘Business.’ Her mother wiped the drip from the side of the decanter and sucked her finger. ‘These days, you are all business.’

‘Tighter,’ hissed Savine through gritted teeth, fists clenched on her dressing table, and she heard Freid hiss with effort as she hauled on the laces.

It was an informal event, so it only took four of them to dress her. Freid was handling the wardrobe on her own. Lisbit was face-maid, on paint, powder and perfume. Metello – a hatchet-featured Styrian who had once been chief dresser to the Duchess of Affoia – barely spoke a word