The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,19

two. “You’re right, you bastard.”

“He’s always right,” said Glaward, sadly.

“He is the clever one,” said Antaup, flicking back his dark forelock.

“Sanity prevails.” Jurand slapped the cane into Leo’s hand and strode off, shaking his head.

“Shame, though,” muttered Jin.

“Aye,” said Leo. “Shame.”

“We have received a letter from His Majesty—”

“From his Closed Council, you mean,” grumbled Lord Mustred.

“Or from Old Sticks and his cronies,” grumbled Lord Clensher. They were quite the pair of old grumblers, those two. They could’ve won grumbling contests. Which was pretty much what these meetings came down to.

Leo’s mother cleared her throat. “They ask us to raise an extra hundred thousand marks in taxes—”

“Again?” Leo’s voice went shrill with dismay, while the worthies around the table shook their grey heads. The ones who weren’t entirely bald, at least. They shook bald heads.

“They say since we have peace in the North revenues should rise, and Angland will not need so large an army—”

“We have peace because we have an army!” Leo tried to leap up, winced at a stab through his leg and had to sink back, clenching his teeth, clenching his fists, clenching everything. “What about the cost of the war—are they paying that, at least?”

Leo’s mother cleared her throat again. “They… do not mention it.”

“Are we the king’s subjects or his bloody livestock?” snapped Mustred. “This is unacceptable!”

“Disgraceful!” growled Clensher.

“Outrageous!”

“What the shit?” Leo smashed at the table with a fist and made the papers and most of the old men jump. “The bloody arrogance of the bastards! In war, all they sent were good wishes and in peace all they send are demands! I swear they’d ask for my fruits in a bag if they thought they could get a good price for the damn things!”

“My lords.” Leo’s mother turned smiling to the room. “Do you suppose you could give us the chamber for a moment?”

With tired voices and tired legs, the old lords of Angland shuffled to the door. They could hardly have looked more tired than Leo felt. As Lord Governor he was buried in responsibilities. If he didn’t spend four hours a day at his desk, he’d drown in paperwork. He hardly knew how his mother had done it. No small part of him wished she was still doing it.

“We support you, Lord Brock.” Mustred’s moustaches vibrated with loyalty as he paused in the doorway.

“We support you whatever.” Clensher’s jowls trembled as he nodded agreement. “Damn those bastards on the Closed Council!” And he pulled the doors shut.

The gloomy room was silent for a moment as Leo’s anger drained away and he worked up the courage to look at his mother. To see that slightly disappointed, slightly exasperated, slightly resigned look she’d been perfecting ever since he could remember.

“Another bloody lecture?”

“Just an entreaty, Leo.” She took his hand, squeezed it in hers. “I share your annoyance, really I do, but you’re Lord Governor now. You have to be patient.”

“How can I?” He couldn’t bear to sit a moment longer. He twisted his hand free and struggled up, half-hopped to the narrow windows and wrestled one open, desperate to feel fresh air on his face. He looked out across the rain-shiny roofs of Ostenhorm towards the grey sea, rubbing at his sore leg. “Are you sure I’m cut out for this? Managing petty complaints? I’m happier at war than at peace.”

“Your father was just the same. But being Lord Governor is about managing the peace. The Closed Council know Nightfall respects you—”

“The Great Wolf only respects the boot across his neck! To disarm us? How can they be so blind? It’s not half a year since we were fighting for our lives, without a shred of help from those bastards!”

“I know. But if you’re furious whenever the Closed Council does something infuriating, you’ll be furious all the time. Rare anger can be inspiring. Frequent anger becomes contemptible.”

Leo took a breath. Forced his shoulders down. By the dead, he was always angry these days. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” The wind was chill outside. He dragged the window closed, gripped his thigh and took a few hobbling steps back to his chair—his prison—and dropped down into it.

“Perhaps you should stop training,” she said softly. “Rest the leg—”

“I did rest it, and it hurt more. So I trained, and it got worse. So I rested it again, and that didn’t help. Nothing bloody helps! I’m trapped by the fucking thing!”

“A change of scene might do you good. We’ve been invited to Lord Isher’s wedding. A trip