08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

When he finally ripped his shirt off, she closed her eyes at the warmth of his bare chest against her bare back, his arm slipping around her ribs, holding her tight against him, skin pressed to skin. His other hand slid back down between her legs again and she rubbed herself against it, backwards and forwards. She slipped one knee up onto the bed, clumsy, off balance, almost falling, had to grip the bedstead with one hand, the other still rubbing at his prick, feeling the end prod wetly against her backside.

No ambitions or manipulations. No fretting on what happened yesterday or what would come tomorrow. Just his breathless grunts and her whimpery moans, eyes closed and mouth open. By the Fates, she sounded like a cat crying to be let in. She didn’t care.

She let go of everything.

Lost Causes

‘You can go,’ said Vick.

The Practical’s eyes slid over to the prisoner, sly and cruel and very narrow. She wondered if they were trained to use their eyes that way, or if only people with a naturally threatening glare wanted to work as Practicals in the first place. Bit of both, maybe.

‘I think I can handle him,’ she said. The prisoner’s wrists were shackled behind his back, after all, and chained to the chair for good measure, the bag over his head shifting as he breathed.

The door shut, and Vick took the bag by one corner and dragged it off.

She’d liked Malmer from the moment she met him. She’d never have admitted it, because it could have become a weakness to exploit. But she liked him a lot. Respected him. Reckoned he was as close as men got to being good. So it hurt, his wounded look as he recognised her. But a look was all it was. Vick had met kicks and sticks and knives with a smile, and some of them from people she’d liked. A hurt look wouldn’t shift her resolve any more than a breeze would shift a mountain. Or so she told herself.

‘You’re one o’ them,’ he breathed, and he closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head. ‘Never would’ve picked you as the one. Would’ve picked you last of all.’

‘That’s my job,’ she said as she dropped into the chair opposite.

‘Well, you’re damn good at it. Hope you’re proud.’

‘I’m not ashamed. Folk who keep hold of baggage like shame and pride don’t last a week in the camps.’

‘That much was true, then?’

‘My family died there. All of them.’

‘Then … how can you work for these bastards now? After what you’ve been through?’

‘You’ve got it backwards.’ Vick leaned towards him. ‘After what I’ve been through, how could I not work for these bastards now?’

Malmer’s shoulders sagged. ‘We were promised amnesty. Is that true, at least?’

‘That’s true. But you must’ve known there’d be questions.’ She looked him full in the face, so she could judge every twitch or tick or movement of his eyes. So she could sense the truth. ‘Where’s Risinau?’

He gave a weary sigh. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Where’s Judge?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Just give me something I can give them. Help me help you.’

‘You think I wouldn’t hand over Judge if I could?’ Malmer gave a sad chuckle. ‘I’d cheer at her bloody hanging, the mad witch.’

The answers she’d known she’d get. But the questions still had to be asked. ‘Who’s the Weaver?’

‘That’s what Risinau called himself, when we first met.’

‘When was that?’

‘I was arrested for agitating. Five years ago. Maybe six. All we did was band together to ask for a fair wage, but I got the blame. Seems I’ve a talent for that. Risinau came to me. In a room like this one. Said he saw things our way. Said he wanted to help. Strike a blow for the common man, that’s what he said. Bring a Great Change.’ Malmer curled his lip. ‘Guess I believed what I wanted to. Guess I’ve a talent for that, too.’

‘Most of us do,’ said Vick. ‘You know what I think?’

‘If I did, I might not be in this chair.’

‘Risinau was a fool. He might’ve presided over the chaos, but there’s no way he planned that uprising.’ She eased a little closer, as if she was sharing her secrets rather than winkling his out. Nothing to make people trust you like pretending you trust them. ‘He said the Weaver was a name he borrowed from someone else. Someone who set him on this path.’

It was thin, she knew. Nothing that might convince His Eminence there was some deeper conspiracy. But Vick had never been able to leave a loose thread dangling.

‘What do you owe Risinau?’ she asked. ‘He used you all. A blow for the common man? Don’t make me laugh. Who’s the Weaver?’

Malmer was frowning down at the tabletop. As if she’d made him think. As if he was picking through the past, trying things different ways. Then he blinked and sat back with a grunt, as if he’d suddenly made them fit.

‘There was a man, at the first big meeting I went to. Risinau was so … respectful of him. Awestruck, almost. Like a priest who’d had God turn up to his service. Risinau pointed him out while he was talking. Called him the founder of the feast. The reason we were all there. But he didn’t say a thing. Just watched.’

‘Who was it?’ growled Vick. She could taste the answer, dangling right in front of her.