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

She plucked a minute tuft of fluff from his jacket. ‘Are you intoxicated?’

‘Can’t think why I would be.’ Orso picked up the decanter with a flourish and poured himself a glass. ‘I’ve snorted just the right amount of pearl dust to even out the husk I smoked this morning.’ He rubbed at his nose, which was still pleasantly numb, then raised his glass in salute. ‘Bottle or two to smooth off the rough edges and it should be straight sailing till lunch.’

The royal bosom, constrained by corsetry that was a feat of engineering to rival any wonder of the new age, inflated majestically as the queen sighed. ‘People expect a certain amount of indolence in a Crown Prince. It was quite winning when you were seventeen. At twenty-two, it began to become tiresome. At twenty-seven, it looks positively desperate.’

‘You have no idea, Mother.’ Orso dropped into a chair so savagely uncomfortable it was like being punched in the arse. ‘I have long been thoroughly ashamed of myself.’

‘You could try doing something to be proud of. Have you considered that?’

‘I’ve spent whole days considering it.’ He frowned discerningly through the wine as he held it up to the light from the giant windows. ‘But doing it really feels like such a lot of effort.’

‘Frankly, your father could use your support. He is a weak man, Orso.’

‘So you never tire of telling him.’

‘And these are difficult times. The last war did … not end well.’

‘It ended pretty well if you’re King Jappo of Styria.’

His mother pronounced each word with icy precision. ‘Which you … are … not.’

‘Sadly, for all concerned.’

‘You are King Jappo’s mortal enemy and the rightful heir to all he and the thrice-damned Snake of Talins have stolen, and it is high time you took your position seriously! We have enemies everywhere. Inside our borders, too.’

‘I am aware. I just attended the hanging of three of them. Two peasants and a girl of fifteen. She pissed herself. I’ve never felt prouder.’

‘Then I trust you come to me in a receptive mood.’ Orso’s mother gave two sharp claps and Lord Chamberlain Hoff strutted in. With waistcoat bulging around his belly and legs stick-like in tight breeches, he looked like nothing so much as a prize rooster jealously patrolling the farmyard.

‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed so low to the queen, he virtually buffed the tiles with his nose. ‘Your Highness.’ He bowed just as low to Orso but in a manner that somehow expressed boundless contempt. Or perhaps Orso only saw his own contempt for himself reflected in that obsequious smile. ‘I have positively scoured the entire Circle of the World for the most eligible candidates. Dare one suggest that the future High Queen of the Union waits among them?’

‘Oh, good grief.’ Orso let his head drop back, staring up towards the beautifully painted ceiling of the peoples of the world kneeling before a golden sun. ‘The parade again?’

‘Ensuring the succession is not a joke,’ pronounced his mother.

‘Not a funny one, anyway.’

‘Don’t be facetious, Orso. Your sisters both did their dynastic duty. Do you suppose Cathil wanted to move to Starikland?’

‘She’s an inspiration.’

‘Do you think Carlot wanted to marry the Chancellor of Sipani?’

Actually, she had been delighted by the idea, but Orso’s mother loved to imagine everyone sacrificing all on the altar of duty, the way she was always telling them she had. ‘Of course not, Mother.’

By then, two footmen were easing an enormous painting into the room, straining not to catch the frame in the doorway. A pale girl with an absurdly long neck smiled winsomely from the canvas.

‘Lady Sithrin dan Harnveld,’ announced the lord chamberlain.

Orso sank lower into his chair. ‘Do I really want a wife who measures the distance from her chin to her tits in miles?’

‘Artistic licence, Your Highness,’ explained Hoff.

‘Call it art, you can get away with anything.’

‘She is quite presentable in the flesh,’ said the queen. ‘And her family can be traced back to the time of Harod the Great.’

‘A true thoroughbred,’ interjected the lord chamberlain.

‘She’s stupid as a horse, all right,’ said Orso. ‘And you can’t have an idiot for both king and queen.’

‘Next,’ grated out Orso’s mother, a second pair of footmen nearly colliding with the first as they carted in a painting of a slyly smirking Styrian.

‘The Countess Istarine of Affoia is a proven politician, and would bring us valuable allies in Styria.’

‘From the looks of her, she’s more likely to bring me a dose of the cock-rot.’

‘I had imagined you would be immune from constant exposure,’ observed the queen, waving the portrait away with an exquisite flourish of her fingers.

‘Such a shame I never see you dance any more, Mother.’ She danced superbly. Sometimes she even seemed to enjoy it.

‘Your father is an absolute oaf of a partner.’

Orso gave a sad smile. ‘He does his best.’

‘This is Messela Sivirine Sistus,’ proclaimed the lord chamberlain, ‘younger daughter of the Emperor Dantus Goltus—’