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

‘Thank the dead.’ And she grinned, showing him a mouthful of egg mush. ‘Man’s a fucking arsehole.’

He grinned back. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I ever met a woman like you before.’

‘And you’ve met so many.’

‘Honestly, my reputation in that regard is hugely inflated.’

‘Hugely inflated, eh? Perhaps you’re more like Leo dan Brock than you think.’ She leaned over to grab a slice of bread off the tray, and there was a rattle as the door was flung carelessly open.

‘For pity’s sake, Orso.’ A strange, sharp accent. ‘Tell me you’re not still—’

A superbly dressed woman glided into the room with all the majesty of a great ship under full sail and stopped, staring down her nose towards the bed. Didn’t take long for Rikke to realise it was Orso’s mother. Her August Majesty the High Queen of the Union. She gave a kind of helpless squeak. Might’ve done better if she hadn’t just wedged a piece of bread in her wide-open mouth, but she doubted it.

‘Who is this … person?’ asked the queen.

‘Er … this is Rikke. The beautiful and mysterious Witch of the North!’ Orso attempted an ornamental flourish, as though she was being presented to the throne rather than caught in his bed, and Rikke coughed and almost blew bread out of her nose. ‘She is an emissary from the Protectorate.’

Rikke wasn’t sure whether he’d made her look better or the Protectorate worse. She took the bread out of her mouth, shut it, then pinched the sheet between finger and thumb and ever so gradually pulled it up over her tits.

The queen made an arch of one perfect brow. ‘When it comes to building close diplomatic ties with the future King of the Union, one cannot fault her commitment.’

Rikke cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s a key alliance for us.’ Orso smothered a laugh. His mother didn’t. Rikke thought about just keeping on pulling the sheet until it was all the way over her head.

‘Tell me this isn’t the girl you’re thinking of marrying, Orso?’

Rikke stared at him. ‘You’re getting—’

‘No!’ Orso gave a pained wince. ‘That was … all a misunderstanding.’

The queen sighed heavily. ‘It says something for the scale of my desperation that I was entirely prepared to welcome her into the family.’ And she swept out, shutting the door behind her with a precise click.

Rikke puffed out her cheeks. ‘By the dead. Your mother’s got a stare could curdle milk.’

‘I think she rather took to you,’ said Orso. ‘And it’s a hell of a compliment. When it comes to naked women, she’s quite the connoisseur.’

‘I’d best get dressed.’ Rikke sat up, peering about for her trousers. ‘In case your father comes wandering in next.’

‘I’m guessing it doesn’t take you too long?’

Rikke glanced down at herself. ‘Get my boots on and I’m pretty much there.’

‘Wonderful.’ Orso was looking down at her, too, the ghost of a smile about his lips. He brushed her neck with a fingertip, then slid it down until it caught the hem of the sheet, and started to drag that down, too. ‘We may be able to fit in a brief round of diplomacy before the parade.’

‘Well … I was sent to improve relations with the Union.’ And she kicked the tray clattering off onto the floor, spat a bit of egg after it, grabbed a fistful of Orso’s jacket and dragged him down on top of her.

No Expense Spared

‘The bloody people,’ bellowed Leo over the cheering.

‘There are a lot of them,’ Orso shouted back.

They crowded to the edges of every roadway, crammed every roof and window. The streets were canyons of humanity, the squares were seas of faces. Just when Leo thought there couldn’t be any more in the world, they’d turn a corner and another avenue would open up, smiles stretching into the distance. His wounded side was sore from all the riding, his wounded arm from all the waving, his wounded face from all the grinning.

‘Are they taking them from the back and rushing them to the front down side streets, or something?’

‘Bearing in mind my mother organised this,’ said Orso, ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

The parade itself must’ve been several thousand strong. At the front rode magnates of the Open Council, garlanded with braid and medals. Leo got an approving nod from Lord Isher as he glanced over his shoulder. An energetically shaken fist from Barezin. A self-satisfied salute from Heugen.

Further back were lesser aristocracy, officers of the army and fur-trimmed bureaucrats. Wedged between them and the glittering ranks of tramping soldiers were a group of ambassadors, emissaries and foreign worthies with a daunting array of skin tones and national costumes.