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

By the dead, this one was even more beautiful than the other. Her skin had this sheen, like she wasn’t made of meat but some magic alloy of flesh and silver, every gesture finished off right to the tips of her long fingers like it was part of a dance, endlessly practised and utterly perfected.

‘Shit,’ breathed Rikke, unable to stop herself looking this woman up and down. ‘You have made some effort.’

‘Honestly, my maids made most of it. I only had to stand there.’

‘Maids? How many do you need?’

‘Only four, if they know their business. I very much like your shirt. It looks so comfortable. I wish I could wear one.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because there are a million different rules a lady of taste must observe. No one tells you what they are, but the penalties for breaking them can be most severe.’

‘That sounds a pain in the arse.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Must admit, I didn’t really know what to expect.’ Rikke plucked at her shirt. It had stuck around her armpits with the heat of all these people lying to each other. ‘I got new boots, too. Even combed my hair.’ She nervously twisted a stray tangle behind her ear. ‘But I slept out in a forest for a few weeks and it’s refused to behave ever since. How d’you get yours to do … all that?’

The woman leaned close. ‘It’s a wig.’

‘Is it?’ Rikke stared at those shining braids coiled and piled and swept up like a nest of spun gold. ‘Looks like hair, just … more so.’

‘It is hair. It just isn’t mine.’

‘Doesn’t yours grow?’

‘I clip it off.’

‘Or your maids do.’

‘Well … yes. Most of the women here are wearing wigs. It’s the fashion.’

She said that word, fashion, like it was an explanation for any kind of madness. ‘Everyone knows that?’

‘Everyone.’

‘So why are we whispering?’ whispered Rikke.

‘Well … because everyone knows it, but no one admits it.’

‘So … you shave your heads so you can wear a hat made of someone else’s hair, then lie about it?’ Rikke puffed out her cheeks. ‘Puts my worries in some fucking perspective.’

‘Not all of us have the courage for honesty.’

‘Not all of us have the wit to lie.’

The woman narrowed her eyes at Rikke. ‘I doubt you’re lacking wit.’

Rikke narrowed her eyes at the woman. ‘I doubt you’re lacking courage.’

She flinched a little, as if that somehow touched a sore spot, and changed the subject. ‘I very much like your necklaces, too.’

Rikke tucked her chin into her neck to peer down at the mass of charms she’d collected over the years. Some Gurkish ones, some Northern ones, some shaman’s teeth and this and that. She’d always felt you could never have too much good luck. Seemed a right lot of old junk now. She hooked the well-bitten dowel with her thumb and held it up. ‘This one’s to bite on if I have a fit. Hence the tooth marks.’

The woman raised her brows. ‘Beautiful and practical.’

‘These are runes. My friend Isern-i-Phail carved ’em. Supposed to keep me safe. Year I’ve had, though, I doubt they work.’

‘Well, they’re lovely, regardless. I never saw anything like them.’

She actually seemed to mean it, and she’d been kind, in a way. ‘Here.’ Rikke took the runes off and slipped them gently over the woman’s head. ‘Maybe they’ll work better for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Savine, and for once she meant it. It was such a simple, forthright gesture, she found herself disarmed. She could hardly remember the last time someone gave her something without expecting double the value in return.

‘I can get another,’ said the Northern girl, waving it away. ‘Looks much better on you. You’ve the shoulders for it.’

‘Fencing.’

‘What, sword-work?’

‘It’s fine exercise. Keeps me focused—’ She was caught off guard by a sudden memory of her sword punching through that man’s ribs, in Valbeck, in the gutter. The noise he made as she struggled to pull the blade out of him. She had to shake off an ugly shiver. ‘Though … perhaps playing with swords is a bad idea.’

‘Might be I’ll try an axe instead. Axes are always popular, where I come from.’

‘I had heard.’ And they smiled at each other. Savine told herself she found this girl’s artless ways endearing. The truth, as usual, was less sentimental. She did not trust herself to talk to anyone more important.

Whenever someone expressed their disingenuous condolences over her ordeal, or their unconvincing relief at her safe return, she wanted to knock them down and grind her heel into their eye. She’d been sniffing pearl dust all day. Just a pinch at sunup to chase off the nightmares. Then a pinch at breakfast to keep her head above water. Maybe a couple more before lunch. Only rather than keeping her sharp, the way it used to, it was making her twitchy and savage and strangely reckless.

‘Here.’ She undid the clasp of her necklace. Red Suljuk gold and the most stunning dark emeralds from Thond, beautifully worked by her man in Ospria at a cost that had raised even her eyebrows. She slipped it around the girl’s neck and fastened it. ‘I’ll swap you.’

The girl stared at it, nestling among that mass of beads, charms and talismans, big eyes bigger than ever. ‘I can’t take this.’