The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,40

his throat. He’d known real adulthood was advancing on him, but he’d assumed it was still some way off. Now it had fallen from a great height and squashed him flat. “Can I at least ask her myself?”

“Of course.” His mother stepped aside and gestured towards the tall windows.

“Wait…” Leo felt a new stab of nerves. “She’s here?”

“On the terrace,” said Lady Ardee. “Waiting for your proposal.”

“I don’t even have a—”

His mother was holding a ring out, blue stone glinting in the sunlight. “The one your father gave me.” She took his wrist, turned his hand over and dropped it into his palm while Lady Ardee nudged the window open with her boot-heel, a cool breeze washing in from the terrace and stirring the curtains.

Leo’s only options were a courageous advance or to run screaming from the room, and with the state of his leg he doubted he could outrun his mother. He closed his fist tight around the ring, drained the flask and handed it to Lady Ardee. “My thanks.”

“My honour.” She plucked a speck of dust from his jacket and gave his chest an approving pat. “We’ll be here if you get into trouble.”

“What a comfort,” he murmured as he stepped out into the sunlight.

Savine stood at the parapet, the Agriont spread out below her as if she owned it. Somehow, he’d expected her to have turned matronly, rosy-cheeked, bloated out with child. But she was every bit as sleek and dignified as the day they met. Not rattled by the long drop beyond the short parapet at her back, or their whirlwind courtship, or her delicate condition. Apparently impossible to rattle at all. His first thought was what a portrait they’d make together.

She sank into a curtsy with a rustling of skirts. Very formal. Very clean. Except, perhaps, for the slightest playful smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Your Grace.”

He’d thought about her often since that night in the writer’s office, but somehow it didn’t prepare him for seeing her again in the flesh. “Call me Leo,” he said in the end. “I think we’re past titles.”

She put a hand on her stomach. “Well, Leo, we have made a child together.”

It wasn’t funny, on the face of it, but he had to smile. The polish of an empress with the candour of a sergeant-at-arms.

“So our mothers tell me.”

“They make quite the pair, don’t they? As complementary as a long and a short steel.”

“And just as deadly.” He put his fists on the lichen-spotted stonework beside her, the ring digging at his palm. Was he really going to do this? Could he possibly do this? The whole thing felt like a dream. But far from a nightmare.

“I can only apologise for the ambush,” she said, turning to look at the view. The statues standing proud on either side of the Kingsway, the wide expanse of the Square of Marshals, the glinting dome of the Lords’ Round. “If it’s any consolation, they did the same to me. I was somewhat… surprised at first.”

“So was I, I’ll admit.”

Her eyes came to rest on his, her chin raised in a challenge which he found, for some reason, deeply attractive. He thought of what his friends would say, when he presented a famous beauty as his wife. That’d wipe the smile from Antaup’s face. “I enjoyed our moment together a great deal.”

“So did I.” He had to clear his throat at the roughness in his voice. “I’ll admit.”

“But I had thought that would be all it was. A moment.”

“So had I.” Leo found himself smiling. “I’ll admit.” He’d expected this to be a painful duty, but he was starting to enjoy it. It had the feel of a dance. A ritual. A duel.

“Does my father worry you?”

His eyes widened. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was getting Old Sticks for a father-in-law. It occurred to him now, the way the slaughterman occurs to the pig. The most feared man in the Union, a master torturer with an army of Practicals, an enemy of all Leo stood for. “I get the sense he… doesn’t like me very much.”

“He doesn’t like anyone.”

“But I get the sense I don’t like him very much—”

“That would be terrible. If you were planning to marry him.” She raised one brow. “Are you planning to marry him?”

“I don’t think your mother would like it.”

“My father doesn’t own me. Not even a percentage. If we marry, my loyalty will be to you. But you should know I