The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,146

a few himself, in his misspent youth. And his misspent adulthood, for that matter.

“Despite all my protestations to the contrary,” he said, sucking in a breath heavy with husk, musk and perfume, “I think at least half my heart belongs to Styria.”

“Reckon I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Tunny, grinning hugely, “as the Gurkish might say.”

“To hell,” squeaked Gorst, heavy jaw firmly clenched beneath his mask of a crescent moon.

Orso had attended quite a few masked balls and learned how to handle them through pleasurable trial and error. The main rule was not to get carried away and make an utter arse of yourself. A good rule under all circumstances, in truth, but one that not everyone followed.

Four men were gathered at the dice table. One in a unicorn mask slouched against it, shirt open to show a patch of sweaty chest, waving one floppy hand in time to the band. Or, in fact, entirely out of time. “Lovely music,” he droned, “wonderful music.”

“I told you not to smoke that pipe,” snapped a broad-shouldered one in a lion mask as he flung the dice down the table. They were from the Union, clearly. Angland accents, maybe? Four friends, but the lion appeared to be the leader. Not unlike Orso’s own party, except that Gorst never drank, while Tunny always drank but never seemed to get drunk.

The whale-masked one, who was indeed whale-sized, laughed uproariously at something the bird-masked one said, then lifted his glass but managed to spill most of its contents before he got it to his mouth.

“You’re drunk,” growled the lion.

“It’s a House of Leisure,” said the whale, spreading his hands in good-natured apology. “Shouldn’t we all be drunk?”

“We should all be as drunk as possible whenever possible.” Tunny whisked a glass from a passing tray. “In from the Union, my lords?”

“From Angland,” said the bird. “You?”

“From Adua,” said Orso. “Business?”

“Of a sort,” grunted the lion as the dealer handed him the dice with a slightly pained look, as though it hurt to let go of them. “You?”

“Business. And my sister lives in the city.” Orso lowered his voice. “Took the opportunity to palm my mother off on her. I love the old bird but she won’t stop going on at me to marry.”

“You should.” The lion tossed the dice and brought up four and six, to false delight from the girls about the table. “Married myself not long ago. Had my doubts but it’s been the best decision of my life.” The bird winced and turned away. “Haven’t looked back.”

“She’s licked you into shape!” The unicorn blew a little bubble of snot as he laughed.

“I suppose it all depends on finding the right woman.” Orso gave a long sigh. “Thought I had her. But she slipped through my fingers somehow.”

“You should work on your grip.” The lion tossed the dice one more time.

“Pair of sixes,” droned the dealer, and swept an armload of chips over while the girls cooed as though throwing one number rather than another was quite the achievement.

Now the greeter whispered something in the lion’s ear and he stepped away from the table, straightening his jacket. “Best of luck with your business. And with your mother.” He frowned over at his friends. “I’m sure you three will keep busy while I’m gone.”

The whale grinned over at the bird. “I daresay we can think of something.”

“Lovely,” muttered Tunny, out of the corner of his mouth, as he watched the man stride away with the slightest limp.

“Real charmer.” Orso scooped up the dice and tossed them bouncing across the table.

“One and three,” said the old dealer. “Player loses.” In much the same emotionless tone as he might have announced a win.

Orso sighed as he watched the chips gathered up. “Why is it always the bastards who get all the luck?”

“Winning teaches you nothing,” said Tunny. “You see what a man really is when he loses.”

Jappo mon Rogont Murcatto—Grand Duke of Ospria and Visserine, Protector of Puranti, Nicante, Borletta and Affoia, not to mention King of Styria—sprawled on a velvet chaise in front of a mural of winged women floating naked from a sunset sky and looked very pleased about it. His Suljuk silk gown trailed open to show his muscular stomach, complete with a streak of thick black hair.

A young man dressed in the style of a Gurkish slave-boy had been leaning close to light the king’s pipe. Now he swaggered over to Leo, sinewy body dusted with glitter. “Can I get you anything? Anything