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

She looked so peaceful. To wake her would be selfishness. For once in his life, he would put someone else first. He would make himself a pillar of support rather than a dead weight of disappointment for others to drag from failure to failure. He pulled his hand back.

He would not do the easy thing and play the hero. He would do the work and be one. Ever so gently, he wriggled from the bed, fished up his trousers between two fingers and, holding the buckle to stop it clinking, pulled them on, wedging his morning stiffness dismissively behind his belt where it could droop in its own time. Wouldn’t be needing that this morning. He would give her space. He would give her whatever she needed. He would help her heal.

He whisked his Suljuk silk dressing gown around his shoulders, unable to wipe his grin away. There were a hundred roles he had tried and failed at, often spectacularly. Husband was one of the few remaining at which he might yet achieve dazzling success. He would not let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Not this time.

He stood by the curtain to the main part of the tent for just a moment, looking back. He pressed his fingers to his mouth, almost blew her a kiss. He stopped himself, realising how ridiculous it was. Then he did it anyway, damn it, and let the curtain fall.

There had been a time – yesterday, being honest – when dawn would have found him searching through the bottles scattered about his bed for something he could suck the last drops from. But that man was gone, never to return. Tea was what he needed now. The dawn beverage of industrious achievers!

‘Hildi!’ he shouted, in the vague direction of the tent flap. ‘Stove needs lighting!’

He was beginning to feel exceedingly pleased with himself and he suspected that, for once, he might even deserve it.

True, the dangerous work had been done by Arch Lector Glokta’s formidable double agent, but he felt he had played the hand of aces she dealt him rather well. He had made the hard call to wait and tread softly. He had handled the negotiations with regal authority. He had showed clemency, restraint and good judgement. He had saved lives.

Orso the Merciful, might the historians call him, looking back admiringly on his achievements? It sounded rather well. A great deal better than most of the names the public had for him, anyway.

This uprising had been appalling, of course, but perhaps good could come of it. It could be the moment he ceased to be a disappointment. To the world and to himself. With Savine at his side, he could do anything. Be anything. He strode up and down his tent, the ideas spilling over each other. Facing the day used to be an unbearable effort. Now he could hardly wait to get started.

He had to understand what was truly going on, not just in the corridors of power, but down in the dirt with the common folk. Speak to that woman Teufel. She clearly knew what was really what. Then, when he got back to Adua, interviews with the Closed Council about policy. Proper ones this time, with a real agenda. How he could change things. How he could free the nation of its debts and build. Get rid of those circling vultures Valint and Balk. Spread the wealth. What good was progress if it only benefitted the few? He had to make sure nothing like this uprising could ever happen again. And no bloody apologising for himself this time! Would Savine apologise for herself? Never!

The tent flap was ripped rudely aside and Hildi came stomping in, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints across the groundsheet.

‘Morning, Hildi!’

She appeared to be a great deal less pleased with him than he was, not even glancing in his direction as she dragged a great basket of wood sullenly to the stove.

‘Wonderful day, isn’t it?’

Orso’s mother had made him bloodhound sensitive to the particular character of punishing silences, and Hildi’s was beginning to feel serious. She threw back the door of the stove with a bang and started shoving logs into it as though they were knives and the stove a despised enemy.

‘Something bothering you, by any chance?’

‘Oh no, Your Highness,’ her high voice close to outright collapse under the weight of sarcasm.

‘And yet I sense the slightest frisson of hostility. Grievances are like a drunkard’s bed, Hildi. Always better aired.’

As she turned towards him, he was taken aback by her look of violent hostility. ‘I defended you! When folk laughed! I spoke up for you!’

‘I … appreciate your support?’ ventured Orso, baffled.

‘You bloody knew this would happen!’

He swallowed, a sense of profound dread beginning to creep up his throat. ‘What would happen?’

She raised a trembling hand to point towards the flap, beyond which the sound of hammering and raised voices seemed to have taken on a suddenly sinister air. ‘This!’

Orso pulled his dressing gown about him and ducked into the chilly morning.