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

‘So maybe I’m thinking most clearly.’ Vick let her hand lie on her belt buckle where her brass knuckles were hidden. She didn’t rate Grise much of a threat, for all her bulk. People who shout a lot tend to take a while working up to more. But Vick was ready to put her down if she had to. And when Vick put someone down, she made sure they went down hard.

Lucky for Grise, Sibalt laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and eased her back. ‘Vick’s right. I have to get out of Adua. Just as soon as we strike our blow.’ And Moor slid out a dirty paper and unrolled it across the table. A map of the city. Sibalt tapped a spot in the Three Farms. Not far from where they’d started building that new canal. ‘The Hill Street Foundry.’

‘Though Hill Street’s gone,’ said Moor, in that plodding way he had, ‘since they pulled it down to build the Foundry.’

‘They’re fitting new engines there,’ said Sibalt.

Tallow nodded. ‘I passed ’em on the way. Engines that’ll put two hundred men and women out of work, I hear.’

‘And what?’ muttered Vick, frowning. ‘We’re going to break ’em?

‘We’re going to blow the lot to hell,’ said Grise. ‘With Gurkish Fire.’

Vick blinked at her. ‘How much have you got?’

‘Three barrels,’ said Sibalt. ‘That be enough, you think?’

‘In the right places, maybe. You know how to use it?’

‘Not really.’ Sibalt grinned at her. ‘But you do. Used it in the mines, didn’t you? In Angland.’

‘I did.’ Vick narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘What do you care?’ snapped Grise.

‘I care that your source is reliable. I care that it’s going to work. I care that it’s not going to pop too early and shower bits of us all over the Three Farms.’

‘Well, you can stop worrying, ’cause it comes straight from Valbeck,’ said Grise, smug as a king’s tailor. ‘Straight from the Weaver himself—’

‘Shush,’ hissed Sibalt. ‘Best if no one knows more than they have to. Don’t worry, the powder’s good.’

Grise slapped her fist into her palm. ‘A blow for the common man, eh, brothers?’

‘Aye,’ said Moor, slowly nodding his big head. ‘We’ll strike a spark.’

‘And the spark’ll start a fire,’ said Sibalt.

Vick sat forward. ‘If we do this, people get hurt. People get killed.’

‘Only those that deserve it,’ said Grise.

‘Once the killing starts, it rarely sticks to those who deserve it.’

‘You scared?’

‘If you’re not scared, you’re mad or stupid, and there’s no place for either on a task like this. We need to plan every detail.’

‘I got a job there labouring,’ said Moor. ‘I can map it out.’

‘Good,’ said Vick. ‘More plans mean fewer risks.’

Grise sneered her disgust. ‘All you ever fucking talk about is the risks!’

‘Someone needs to. This has to be something we choose, not something we blunder into ’cause we’re sore and can’t think of anything better to do with ourselves.’ She looked around those four faces, strange in the flickering light of the cellar. ‘This is what you all want, is it?’

‘It’s what I fucking want,’ said Grise.

‘It’s what I want,’ said Sibalt.

‘Aye,’ rumbled Moor.

She looked at Tallow last. He couldn’t be older than fifteen himself, and might only have had three good meals in that whole stretch. Reminded her of her brother, a little. Those skinny wrists sticking from frayed sleeves just a touch too short. Trying to put a hard face on but beaming fears and doubts out like a lighthouse through those big damp eyes.

‘There’s a Great Change coming,’ he said, finally. ‘That’s what I want.’

Vick smiled a grim smile. ‘Well, if I learned one thing in the camps, it’s that talking isn’t enough.’ She realised she’d closed her fingers to make a fist. ‘You want a thing, you have to fight for it.’

She stayed straddling him for a while afterwards, his chest pressed against hers with each snatched breath. Kissing at his lip. Biting at it. Then with a grunt, she slid off him, rolled onto her side next to him on the narrow bed, dragging the blankets up over her bare shoulder. It felt chill now they were done, frost showing in the smudges of lamplight at the corners of the little window.

They both lay silent, he staring at the ceiling, she staring at him. Outside the carts clattered by, and the traders offered their wares, and that drunk on the corner roared his meaningless pain and fury at nothing and no one. At everything and everyone.

Finally, he turned towards her. ‘Sorry I couldn’t step in with Grise—’

‘I can look after myself.’

Sibalt snorted. ‘No one better. I’m not sorry ’cause I think you need my help. I’m sorry I can’t give it. Better if they don’t know we’re …’ He slipped his hand up onto her ribs, rubbing at that old burn on her side with his thumb, trying to dig up the right word for what they were. ‘Together.’

‘In here, we’re together.’ She jerked her head towards the warped door in the warped frame. ‘Out there …’ Out there, everyone stood on their own.

He frowned at the little gap of coarse sheet between them as if it was a great divide that could never be crossed. ‘Sorry I can’t tell you where the Gurkish Fire comes from.’

‘Best if no one knows more than they have to.’

‘It’ll work.’