A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,83

you?’ said Savine.

That smile curled up a little more. ‘Comes from not having much, maybe.’

It was not mockery, exactly. They simply both knew that Teufel had seen things, suffered things, overcome things that Savine would never have to. Would never dare to. She needed no wigs or powder to hide behind. She sat safe in the certainty that she was carved from fire-toughened wood, and could break Savine in half with those veined coal miner’s hands if she pleased.

Savine found she was shifting a little to hide her sword. She wished she had not worn it. How absurd an affectation it seemed, sitting opposite someone who cut people for a living.

Vick sat with her leg stretched out. The old niggle in her hip was acting up, and every bump in the road sent a jolt through the carriage and a jab of pain from her knee right to her back, but she wasn’t about to squirm for a comfortable position she knew she’d never find.

Savine dan Glokta looked serenely comfortable, one leg carelessly crossed over the other, the shiny toe of one immaculate boot showing beneath the embroidered hem of a dress that probably cost more than the carriage, and the carriage was an expensive one. Vick had never seen a woman who took more trouble about her appearance, and she’d once spent a horrible half-hour lurking at the back of one of Queen Terez’s functions.

Not a hair of Savine’s eyebrows, not a thread of her clothes, not a speck of her powder was out of place, even in the heat. All so porcelain-perfect it was a surprise whenever she moved, talked, breathed like ordinary humans. She wore a ridiculous little sword with jewels on the hilt. She wore a tiny, pointless hat fastened with a crystal pin. She fluttered a fan made from fillets of iridescent seashell gracefully back and forth, back and forth. She had a nest of golden braids which only a dunce could’ve imagined was her real hair. Or anyone’s real hair. Had there been any justice in the world, she would’ve looked absurd. But Vick knew well there was no justice, and she looked spectacular.

Might Vick have looked like that herself, if her father hadn’t been taken by the Inquisition? If her family hadn’t been sent to Angland along with him? Might she have been sitting there, in a wig that took a month to weave, tapping the toe of those wonderful, horrible boots, as smugly satisfied with herself as a cat by the kitchen fire?

Vick learned long ago that might have is a game with no winners. Few games do have winners, in the end.

‘Do you have those sweets, Lisbit?’ asked Savine.

Lisbit, who was only slightly less well groomed than her mistress, slipped a polished box from her travelling bag. Perfume wafted out as she revealed no more than a dozen little sugared fruits, nestling in crushed paper. Vick’s mouth flooded with spit. When you’ve starved, food comes to touch a special place, and you can never quite go back.

‘Can I tempt you?’ murmured Savine.

Vick glanced from her overpriced sweets to her overpriced smile. In the camps, everything had a cost, and usually with painful interest, too. Looking into Savine dan Glokta’s eyes, hard and shiny as the eyes of an expensive doll, Vick doubted you could find a more merciless creditor if you scoured the whole of Angland.

Owing one Glokta was far too many. ‘Not for me.’

‘I entirely understand. Can’t eat them myself.’ Savine sighed as she arched her back, pushing one hand into her impossibly slender side. ‘I’m like a weight of sausage meat squeezed into a half-weight skin already.’

It wasn’t mockery, exactly. They just both knew that Savine had more manners, money and beauty in one quim hair than Vick could’ve dug from her whole acquaintance. She sat safe on invisible cushions of power and privilege, knowing she could buy and sell Vick on a whim.

Savine offered the box to Tallow. ‘How about you, young man?’

A blotchy flush spread across his cheeks. As if a goddess had floated from the heavens to offer him eternal life. ‘I …’ He glanced at Vick. ‘Can I take one?’

‘If Lady Savine says you can take one, you can take one.’

Savine smiled wider than ever. ‘You can take one.’

He reached out with a trembling hand, prised one from the fancy paper, then sat staring at it.

‘That sweet probably cost more than your shoes,’ said Vick.

Tallow lifted up one dirty boot, its creased tongue hanging out