A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,99

her shrieking right out of the carriage and into the gutter and all of a sudden it was like she was drowning in a clutching, stomping sea of hands and boots and furious faces.

‘Where is she?’

‘Old Sticks’ daughter?’

‘Where’s that Glokta bitch?’

‘I’m just the face-maid!’ she squealed, no idea what was happening. A robbery! A riot! They’d dragged the driver down from his seat and were kicking him, kicking him while he huddled on the ground with his bloody hands over his head.

‘We’ll give you one chance—’

‘I’m just—’

Someone hit her. The dull thud of it and her head cracked the pavement, blood in her mouth. Someone pulled her up by her hair. Rip of stitching. The arm of her jacket was half torn off, lace dangling. Someone was rooting through her bag, flinging the pretty pots of paint and powder away, stomping her brushes into the pavement.

‘Get her inside, we’ll soon find out what she knows.’

‘No!’ she squealed, watch chain scraping her face as someone tore it off. ‘No!’ They were laughing as they started to drag her through the gate. ‘No!’ She tried to cling to the frame, but one had her left arm, another her right, a third her left ankle. ‘No!’ Her right shoe kicked helplessly at the ground. Such a nice shoe. She’d been so proud to put it on.

‘I’m just the face-maid!’ she shrieked.

‘Stop!’ roared Kurbman, shoving one man out of his way, then another. ‘Stop!’ He grabbed one lad, who’d eagerly stuck his hand up the girl’s torn skirt, by the throat and threw him to the ground. ‘Have you forgotten who we are? We’re not animals! We’re Breakers!’

In that moment, as their maddened faces turned towards him, he had his doubts. But he kept on shouting anyway. What else could he do?

‘We done this so we wouldn’t be victims. Not so we could make victims o’ them. We’re better’n that, brothers!’ And he tore at the air with his hands, trying to make ’em see. ‘We done this to bring the Great Change! For justice, remember?’

He knew better, o’ course. Some done it for justice, some for vengeance, some for profit and some for the chance to run riot, and it wasn’t like there was no room for a mixture. At a time like this, all flushed with victory and violence, even the better ones could turn dark. Still, there were just enough o’ the first group to get some doubts going.

‘You thinking to let ’er go?’ someone asked.

‘No one’s letting anyone go,’ said Kurbman. ‘They’ll be judged with the others. Judged fair. Judged proper.’

‘I’m just the face-maid,’ gasped the girl, her powder streaked with tears.

At that moment, two of the others came out dragging Vallimir between them, his clothes torn and his face bloody and his eyes barely open. One of the lads spat on him. ‘Fucking bastard!’ growled another.

Kurbman stepped in front of him, hands up. ‘Easy, brothers. Let’s not do anything we’ll regret.’

‘I’ll be regretting nothing,’ snapped someone.

‘And I ain’t your brother,’ said another.

‘If you’ve not got the guts for this, leave it to those who do,’ said a third, like making yourself part of a mob was quite the act o’ courage.

Things might’ve turned ugly then, or uglier, at any rate, if it hadn’t been for some prisoners brought rattling up the street. Two dozen, maybe, a lot of fine clothes in disarray and a lot of proud faces bruised, shocked and tear-tracked, shackled in pairs to a great length of chain. Five Breakers minding ’em, home-made manacles hanging from their belts, a hard-faced old bastard at the front Kurbman knew from meetings, though he didn’t think he’d ever heard him talk.

‘Brother Lock!’ he shouted, and the man held up his shuffling column. ‘You taking these to the Courthouse?’

‘I am.’

‘Got two more for you.’ Kurbman pulled the girl free and, in spite of the grumbling from his comrades, gave her over to a man with a blond beard who started shackling her to the chain. Bloody hell, but one of the prisoners was Self, the foreman from the third shed at Resling’s Glassworks, eyes down and a great bloody welt on his cheek. He was a good man, Self. Always done his best for his people. Kurbman swallowed. Getting these folk shackled was the best he could do. Getting anyone unshackled would more’n likely see him dead.

‘I’m just the face-maid,’ whimpered the girl as they chained Vallimir beside her, head lolling and his hair matted with blood.

Kurbman turned back to