The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,154

the chair, and the men around the cellar shifted and nodded and grunted their anger.

“I’m one o’ you,” growled Broad, trying to scrape together as much dignity as he could with his life hanging from a thread and a badly spun one at that. “I fought the good fight here. Stood on the barricades. Stayed to the bitter end. Chance might’ve landed us in different places, but we want the same thing. Food for our families. A safe place for ’em to sleep. An honest wage for honest work.” All the old slogans, puked up like he still believed them. “Malmer was my friend. I was angry as anyone when they hanged him. But the Young Lion had no part o’ that. He wants to fight the Closed Council like he fought the Northmen—”

He winced as Judge pressed that cleaver harder into his neck, right on the point of drawing blood, chair legs grinding as she started to tip him backwards. “Is that a fact?”

“It is.” Broad’s voice had a scared squeak to it. Or was it an excited one? He had to keep a grip on himself. “The whole army of Angland. On the last day of summer, they’ll land on the coast of Midderland. Thousands of Stour Nightfall’s warriors, too. They’ll join up with the noblemen and they’ll march on Adua.”

“Rebellion against Old Sticks and his Closed Council. Against His fucking Majesty?” The cold metal was of a sudden whipped away and Judge stood, letting Broad’s chair lurch forward onto its front legs. She gave a shiver all over, chains and knives rattling. “I got chills, Sarlby. You got chills?”

“I got lice,” said Sarlby.

“Who hasn’t? Well, apart from Savine dan fucking Brock. Daresay that bitch shits soap and pisses perfume.” Judge narrowed her eyes to black slits, with a gleam of flame at the corners. It was hard to look into them. Hard to look away. “So she wants us to rise up, does she? Keep the king’s soldiers busy so she can walk a carpet of flowers right into the Agriont and slip her pretty little arse onto the king’s throne. Am I close to it?”

Broad glanced around at the men. “You’re Burners, no? I thought rising up was what you’re all about. You’ll get no better chance than this.”

Couple of them looked like they were buying it, but Judge only sneered. “Let’s say it all goes your way, and the Young Lion tears the Closed Council down and buries his wife’s father and all the other vultures, what then?” She poked him in the gut with her cleaver, made him wince. “It’s the nobles backing him. The owners still. We’ll have done nothing but swapped one set of users for another!”

“You’ll get a say in how things are done. Might not be a Great Change, but it’ll be a change for the better. The Brocks have done some good up in Angland. Limits on workers’ hours. Rules to keep gears and driveshafts safe. Controls on truck shops and overseers’ penalties. All sorts o’ things the Breakers been after for years.”

“That’s true,” said Sarlby. “I heard about that.”

Some of the others mumbled agreement. “Aye, my cousin’s got a place in a mine, he’s working three hours less a day.”

One even went so far as to mutter, “They call her the Darling o’ the Slums—”

“Do me a fucking favour!” Judge leaned down snarling over Broad again, lamplight gleaming on the edge of her raised cleaver. “You must take me for some new kind o’ fool.”

“No one’s saying they’re your friends!” Trying to stay calm in spite of his thudding heart. “But they’re the next best thing. Your enemies’ enemies.” Broad tried to smile. The way Savine smiled, like she held all the cards however bad things looked. Probably didn’t work too well chained to a chair, but he tried. “Come to the docks. See what I brought with me. Then you can be… the judge.”

“Oh, I like that.” She smiled, switched back in an instant from fury to oily desire, and she settled herself in Broad’s lap again, closer than ever, making him grunt through gritted teeth. “I expected fisticuffs from you, but never wordplay.” He could hardly think for the horrible, beautiful reek of spirits on her breath. “Did you bring me a present?” Had to keep a grip on himself. Had to. “How romantic.”

There was a squeal of complaining wood as Bannerman wrenched the crate open. The Burners clustered close, staring down eager as winter tramps