The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,16

But the moment His Eminence said, “Westport,” she’d started packing. She was still standing there, mouth half-open but nothing quite coming out, when the door swung wide and Rosimiche strode in.

He hadn’t made quite the effort that she had. He wore a dressing gown left carelessly open to the waist and apparently nothing else, a slice of hairy belly and chest on display.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he blustered, not sounding sorry at all.

She forced out a smile. “No need to apologise. I know you are a busy man.”

“You’re right. I was busy fucking.”

Keeping that smile was an effort. “Congratulations.”

“I would like to get back to it, so let us be brief. Westport will be joining Styria. We share a coastline and a culture. One cannot argue with geography and history. I intend no disrespect.” A phrase people only use when they intend as much as possible.

“Disrespect doesn’t bother me,” she said, giving her voice the slightest edge. “But it might bother the Arch Lector.”

“There was a time when men would soil themselves at the mere mention of the Cripple.” Rosimiche sneered over at her as he poured himself a glass of wine. “But the Serpent of Talins is the power in Styria now. Murcatto has bound Styria together while the Union splits at the seams. Nobility and government at each other’s throats. And these Breakers…”

Disrespect didn’t bother her. But that he’d rub her face in it with his brothel and his dressing gown, knowing who she worked for? That was a concern. Seemed he was convinced the Styrian faction would win. Was trying to win their favour by humiliating the Union’s representative.

“One cannot have great growth without a little pain,” said Vick. “The Union’s industry is the envy of the world. Westport would be cutting herself off from her rightful place in the future. I’ve already spoken to several like-minded—”

“That bitch Mozolia? Ha! I hear Shudra already brought her back to his side. Better bribes than yours, I daresay. That’s the thing about women, they think with their cunts. Anything that doesn’t involve a cunt, they should have no opinion on. Fucking and babies, that’s all.”

“Don’t leave out the monthly bleed,” said Vick. “It’s a more versatile organ than men give it credit for.” She rarely allowed herself the luxury of disliking a person, any more than liking one. Either could be a weakness. But this bastard was testing her patience.

Rosimiche bristled, annoyed his ham-fisted coarseness hadn’t thrown her. He swaggered over, puffed up with scorn. “I hear Murcatto is sending Casamir dan Shenkt to the city.”

“I don’t jump at shadows. Perhaps I’ll panic when he gets here.”

“He may already have arrived.” He leaned close, so she could see the tiny specks of sweat on the bridge of his nose. “They say he not only kills those he is sent for, but eats them.” Damn, she regretted the dress now. She was starting to wish she’d worn a full suit of armour. “I wonder what he would eat first? Your liver, maybe?” He leered over at Tallow. “Perhaps he would start by butchering your errand boy?”

And suddenly, all she could think of was the look on her brother’s face, so hurt and so surprised, when the Practicals stepped from the shadows.

Rosimiche gave a little hoot of shock as Vick’s fist smashed into his face. She’d had her brass knuckles hidden behind her, but they were on her fist now. He clutched at the curtains as he stumbled back, blood flooding from his broken nose. She punched him in the side of the jaw with a sick crunch and he fumbled his glass, spraying wine over both of them. Her knuckles caught him across the top of the head as he fell, tearing the curtains down with him.

He hunched in a ball, gasping and spluttering, and she put her knee on his shoulder and rained down punches on any part of him she could reach. She lost count of the blows.

Someone caught her arm, nearly dragged her over. Tallow, wrestling her back. “You’ll fucking kill him!”

Vick tore free, breathing hard. Her dress was wine-stained. Her arm was blood-spotted. Her hair was tangled across her face and she dragged it back, oil between her fingers. It wasn’t a style well suited to beating a man. Rosimiche whimpered, still curled in a ball.

Tallow stared at him with those big, sad eyes. “What d’you do that for?”

She hadn’t even thought about it. Hadn’t weighed the risks or the consequences. Hadn’t even considered where