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

Savine squatted in front of her. Caught her hands in hers. They were cold. Corpse hands. ‘Don’t worry. He will speak to the queen. He will speak to the king. They’ve wanted him to marry for years, they’ll be relieved he’s marrying a human! And if they’re not, he’ll convince them! I know him. I trust him. He’ll—’

‘You cannot marry Prince Orso.’

‘I know his reputation’s bad, but he’s nothing like people think. We love each other. He has a good heart.’ Good hearts? She was blathering but she couldn’t stop herself, going nervously faster and faster. ‘And I have sense enough for both of us. We love each other. And think of all the good I can do if—’

‘You’re not hearing me, Savine.’ Her mother looked up. Her eyes were wet, but there was a hardness in them, too. A hardness Savine had not often seen. She pronounced each word with stern precision. ‘You cannot … marry … Prince Orso.’

‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Savine’s mother squeezed her eyes shut and a tear black with powder streaked her cheek. ‘He’s your brother.’

‘He’s …’ Savine stared, cold and prickling all over. ‘He’s what?’

Her mother opened her pink-rimmed eyes. She looked calm, now. She slipped her hands from Savine’s, took Savine’s in hers, pressed them tightly. ‘Before the king … was the king. Before anyone guessed he’d ever be the king. We … he and I … were involved.’

‘What do you mean, involved?’ breathed Savine. The king had always behaved so strangely around her. So curious. So solicitous.

‘We were lovers.’ Her mother gave a helpless shrug. ‘Then everyone found out he was King Guslav’s bastard, and he was elected king himself and had to marry where politics dictated. But I … was already with child.’

Savine was having trouble getting a proper breath. The way the king had looked at her, at the last meeting of the Solar Society. That haunted look …

‘It was a dangerous time,’ said her mother. ‘The Gurkish had just invaded. Lord Brock had rebelled against the Crown. The monarchy was hanging by a thread. To protect me … to protect you … your father,’ and she winced, realising that the word could not quite fit the Arch Lector any more, ‘offered to marry me.’ And she guiltily bit her lip. Like a little girl caught stealing biscuits.

‘I’m the king’s bastard?’ Savine jerked her hands from her mother’s grip.

‘Savine—’

‘I’m the king’s fucking bastard, and my father’s not my father?’ She wobbled to her feet, stumbling back as though she’d been slapped.

‘Please, listen to me—’

Savine pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head was throbbing. She ripped her wig off and flung it into the corner. ‘I’m the king’s bastard, my father’s not my father, and I’ve been sucking my brother’s cock?’ she screamed.

‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed her mother, starting up from the settle.

‘My fucking voice?’ Savine clutched at her neck. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

She was sick, just a little. An acrid, wine-tasting tickle that she managed to choke back down, hunched over.

‘I’m so sorry,’ murmured her mother, patting her back as though that might do the slightest good. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She took Savine’s face in her hands and twisted it towards her. Twisted it with surprising firmness. ‘But you cannot tell anyone. Not anyone. Especially not Orso.’

‘I have to tell him something,’ whispered Savine.

‘Then tell him no,’ said her mother. ‘Tell him no and leave it at that.’

Drinks with Mother

‘When we heading North, then?’ asked Yolk.

Tunny looked down his nose at him as if at a woodlouse turned over and unable to right itself. ‘You didn’t hear?’

Yolk looked blank. His favourite expression. ‘Didn’t hear what?’

Forest let vent two perfect streams of curling smoke from his nostrils. He was as accomplished a smoker as he was a hat-wearer and military organiser. ‘Our new Lord Governor of Angland, Leo dan Brock, won a duel against Stour Nightfall, son of Black Calder and heir to the throne of the North and by all accounts a most fearsome opponent.’

‘A manly duel, Northern style!’ Orso thumped the table. ‘Man against man, in a Circle of men’s men! Blood on the snow and all that. Men’s blood, one presumes.’

‘Probably a bit far south for snow this time of year,’ observed Tunny. ‘Though not for blood.’

‘Tell me he got his damn fool head split doing it,’ said Yolk.

‘He was by all accounts picturesquely wounded,’ grunted Orso, ‘but his skull remains intact.’

‘Truly, there’s no justice,’ added Tunny.

‘This comes as a surprise?’

‘For some reason, I never stop hoping.’

‘War in the North is over,’ said Forest. ‘Uffrith is back in the Dogman’s hands and the Protectorate just as it was before.’

‘Little singed, maybe.’

‘So the Young Lion stole all the glory?’ moaned Yolk.

‘Glory just sticks to some men.’ Orso glanced down at his hands and turned them thoughtfully over. ‘Others it slides right off.’

‘Like water off a duck,’ threw in Hildi, from her place on the settle.

‘I’ve always been repellent to glory,’ observed Tunny, ‘and have no regrets.’