The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,43

hood further down. “I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for Shenkt a second time.” He gave a little shiver. “Or, for that matter, to run into the real one.”

“Very wise.”

“They say Styria’s the home of culture, but when it comes to theatre, all they want is flash and sparkle.” Murdine waved it away with flamboyant disgust. “I want to get at the truth.”

“The truth is overrated.” Vick let the purse drop into his hand. “An actor should know that.”

It was early, the sun an angry clipping over the hills in the east, the rigging of the ships casting a cobweb of long shadows on the quay. It was early, but the sooner they were at sea and she was out of this endlessly crowded, superstitious, suffocating city, the happier she’d be.

Or the less unhappy, at least.

Two Practicals followed Vick and Tallow along the seafront, lugging her trunk between them. They were big men, but they were sweating. There was almost as great a weight of clothes, powders and props inside as Savine dan Glokta might have taken on a trip abroad. The many different Victarine dan Teufels she might need to slip into. Made her wonder who the real one was. If there was such a thing any more.

“He was an actor?” muttered Tallow, for about the fifth time, his one little bag slung over his shoulder.

“An actor and acrobat. He’s very particular on that point.”

“You didn’t think to tell me?”

“You can’t let slip what you don’t know.”

“What if, well…” He mimed a stabbing motion. “I’d killed him. Or something?”

“Then there are always more actors.” She gave a sigh that tasted of salt and sea rot and the acrid smoke from the tanneries down the coast, just starting up for the day. “Every idiot wants to be one.”

“Was the real Shenkt even in the city?”

“Who says there even is a real Shenkt? People like things that are simple. Black and white. Good and evil. They want to make a choice and tell themselves they were right. But as His Eminence is fond of saying, the real world is painted in greys. The truth is complicated, full of mixed emotions and blurred outcomes and each-way bets. The truth… is a hard sell.”

They’d reached the ship, now. An unappealing tub in need of a good careening, but it was sailing the right way. The two Practicals set down Vick’s trunk with a clatter. One unceremoniously planted his arse on it while he stretched out his back, the other pulled his mask aside to wipe his sweaty face.

“It helps to give people a straightforward story, with villains to boo and heroes to root for.” Vick narrowed her eyes as she looked out to sea. “In my experience, that means making them up.”

“But who’s—”

Doesn’t matter how sharp you are. No one can be ready all the time.

Something flashed past. One of the two Practicals. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t have time. Just flew a dozen strides and crashed into the side of a boat, staving in the planking in a cloud of splinters.

Tallow shrank back, hands over his head. Vick whipped around to see the other Practical tumbling across the quay, limbs bonelessly flopping. She caught a glimpse of a black figure against the rising sun, coming impossibly fast. She was just raising her arm, she hardly even knew what to do, when it was caught with irresistible strength. She was jerked off her feet, the world reeled, and the quayside smashed her in the chest and drove her breath out in a choking wheeze.

She saw boots through the blur. Well-worn old work boots. Then something was over her face. Darkness and her own booming breath. Hands tied behind her. Scrape of her toes as she was dragged along under the armpits. Hiss over the cobbles. Clack, clack, clack over the boards of a wharf.

She gathered herself, trying to think through the throbbing in her head, the burning ache in her shoulder. She might only get one chance. She might not even get one chance. She shoved a boot down, tried to twist free, but she was gripped tight as barrel bands. Pain stabbed up her arm, made her gasp through gritted teeth.

“Better not,” said a man’s voice in her ear. A soft, bland, bored-sounding voice.

A door clattered open, then shut. Boots clonked and rattled on a loose floor. She felt herself dumped into a chair. A creak of wood and a hiss of rope as her hands were tied fast to