The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,191

“So much to do, you understand. Well, of course you understand, you’ve an army of your own to manage. And bigger even than mine! Don’t get up!” Hildi struck a match and began to light the tall candles as Orso trotted over to offer his hand, smiling hugely. His mother had always told him it was important to smile. Especially at your enemies.

Brock was not much changed. Every bit the chunkily handsome storybook hero that Orso remembered. He had grown something of a beard, but then he probably grew a beard between breakfast and lunch, even those bits at the corners of the mouth that Orso could never quite get to come through. Frozen uncomfortably between rising and staying seated, Brock looked at the proffered hand with an air of puzzled disgust. Like a man who had rolled over to find a turd in his bed. Then he reluctantly reached for it.

“Not too firmly!” said Orso. “Remember I’m no warrior!” When Brock’s hand gingerly gripped his, he gave it as bone-crushing a squeeze as he could manage and was mildly gratified to see him wince. Small victories, perhaps, but Orso’s father had always said one must take all the victories one can get.

Brock gestured to the two men he had brought with him, standing grimly against the wall. “These are my aides—Antaup…” Lean and handsome, with that slicked-back black hair which somehow always let a rakish lock or two drop over the forehead. “And Whitewater Jin.” A rugged, red-bearded Northman who looked to have been opening doors with his face most of his life.

Orso grinned at them, too. Grins were free, after all. “Are there any small Northmen? I’ve never seen one!”

“We keep ’em at the back,” growled Jin.

“Lucky for them! I’ll be at the back myself, if it comes to fighting, I can promise you that, eh, Tunny?”

Tunny gave an approving nod. “Well in the rear, Your Majesty.”

“How about you, Young Lion? You’ll be leading by example, I daresay?”

“I daresay,” said Brock stiffly.

“Corporal Tunny and Colonel Gorst you know, of course, and this is Hildi, my—” Orso frowned. “What the hell are you, Hildi? My butler? My jester?”

“Your parasite,” she said as she lit the last of the candles and neatly wafted out the match. “I’m only here till you pay what you owe me—”

“For the Fates’ sakes, you know I’m good for it.” Orso gave a weary sigh as he dropped into his chair. “But that’s being king. Everyone wants a little piece of you. You’ll find out. If you win.”

Brock paused with mouth open, then gave a kind of grimace, as though he had realised the only way to get that turd out of his bed was with his fingers. “We don’t want to depose you, Your Majesty—”

“Please don’t ‘Majesty’ me, it’s faintly ridiculous at the best of times, but with armies in the field it’s positively absurd. Let’s talk like equals. Like friends. Just for tonight. I imagine tomorrow’s events will necessitate a whole new relationship between us, in any case.”

Brock grimaced again as he pronounced the name. “Orso, then—”

“Wine?” asked Orso, and Hildi ghosted forward with a cloth over one arm and tipped the bottle towards Brock’s glass.

“Not for me.”

“I hope you won’t mind if I do, it’s a very good Osprian. Maybe your friends would like to—”

Whitewater Jin looked as if he might be on the point of accepting but Brock jumped in first. “My friends want the same thing as me. To avoid a battle, if we can. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re invading Midderland… to avoid a battle? Couldn’t you have simply… stayed loyal?” And Orso took a noisy slurp from his glass, regarding the Lord Governor of Angland over the rim.

“Loyal?” Brock stared back at him, ever so slightly pale. “No man was more loyal than me when Scale Ironhand attacked the Protectorate. We leaped to the Dogman’s defence. Never considered anything else. We were outnumbered but we fought even so. We knew we had the Union behind us. We knew help would come. Any day.” He looked over at the Steadfast Standard, chest swelling with pride, as if the damn thing really was made of gold rather than just gold thread. “Back then, I would’ve followed that flag into hell!”

Orso swallowed uncomfortably. This story was making his wine taste somewhat sour.

“But all we got from Midderland was well-wishes,” said Brock, nobly disappointed, “and empty promises, and endless demands for taxes. Do you wonder why there wasn’t a man in Angland who