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

But that would only draw attention. And no one could know. Her father was right about that. Or he would have been, if he had been her father. Bayaz was still smiling straight at her. Less majestic than the statue which stood not far off on the Kingsway, but a great deal more smug. All Savine could do was turn her attention to the square, push her shoulders back, her chin up and her face into the blandest smile imaginable, and clap.

And fume like a boiling kettle.

Orso heard the cheering ahead as the parade reached the Square of Marshals. He heard the chanting of, ‘Leo! Leo!’ The calls of, ‘The Young Lion!’ There could be no doubt the manly bastard filled the role of hero spectacularly well. Far better than Orso ever could.

He had to admit to being pleasantly surprised by the new Lord Governor of Angland. He had expected him to be a humourless thug and, yes, he had the usual provincial prejudices, but he turned out to be rather winningly honest and generous. A hard man to hate. The poor bastard had no idea he was hammering nails into Orso’s skull when he talked about Savine. He had no idea about a lot of things. Probably she would squeeze the hapless fool until his pips squeaked and leave him a pining husk. It would hardly be the first time she’d done it. All it took was the thought of her with another man to leave Orso wanting to puke out his eyes.

Then he caught sight of Rikke, and found he was smiling in spite of himself.

She slouched in the saddle, squinting angrily up at the sun as though she was taking its shining personally. He wasn’t sure she’d changed a thing since getting out of his bed. Among that immaculately tailored, groomed and decorated company, he found her total lack of effort oddly attractive.

He had wanted to marry the best-dressed woman in the Circle of the World, after all, and look how that turned out.

‘Your Highness,’ she grunted as he dropped back towards her.

‘Your …’ Orso frowned. ‘What’s the term of address for an emissary from the Protectorate?’

‘Rikke?’

‘You don’t stand on ceremony up there, do you?’

‘We stomp all over it. What are you doing back here with the chaff? Not enough width on one street for two heads so swollen as yours and Leo dan Brock’s?’

‘I quite like him.’ Orso shrugged. ‘A great deal better than I like myself, at least. In which I think, for once, I am in tune with the public mood.’ Those commoners who looked in Orso’s direction did so, in the main, with hatred. ‘No doubt I deserve it, though.’

‘Unpopular at home, you came down here to work on overseas alliances. You’re not the self-obsessed rake I was expecting.’

‘I fear I’m even worse.’ He leaned towards her, dropping his voice. ‘There’s only one alliance I want to work on, and it’s the one between my prick and your—’

He caught sight of the man riding just behind Rikke. A towering old Northman with the most monstrous scar he had ever seen, a bright ball of metal gleaming in the midst of it. His other eye was fixed on Orso with an expression fit to freeze the blood. Though it must be hard to find warm expressions when you have a face like a murderer’s nightmare.

Orso swallowed. ‘Your friend has a metal eye.’

‘That’s Caul Shivers. Got a good claim to being the most feared man in the North.’

‘And he’s … your bodyguard?’

Rikke shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘Just a friend. But I guess he’s filling the role.’

‘And the woman?’

She watched Orso even more intently than Shivers, if anything, one hand blue with tattoos, her stony-hard face shifting rhythmically as she chewed at something. Without breaking eye contact, she turned her head and savagely spat.

‘That’s Isern-i-Phail. Reckoned most wise among the hillwomen. She knows all the ways. Even better’n her daddy did. She’s been helping me open the Long Eye. And to make of my heart a stone. With mixed results.’

‘So she’s … your tutor?’

Rikke shrugged again. ‘Just a friend. But I guess she’s filling the role.’

‘For an easy-going woman, you have some fearsome retainers.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re safe.’ She leaned close. ‘Long as you don’t let me down.’

‘Oh, I let everyone down.’ He grinned at her, and she grinned back, all the way across her wide mouth. It looked so wonderfully open and true, somehow, that he felt pleased with himself for having some part in it. He had proposed to the most manipulative woman in the Circle of the World, after all.

Look how that turned out.

No expense had been spared. They’d turned the Square of Marshals into an arena, like they did for the Summer Contest, banks of seating bursting with happy crowds. The buildings were decked with flags: the sun of the Union, the crossed hammers of Angland. Everyone wore their best, though their best varied depending on which end of the square you were at. Up at the other end it was jewels and silk, down here it was twice-turned jackets and a ribbon or two for the lucky ones.