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

‘Humility,’ scoffed Calder. ‘Can’t think of a man with a higher opinion of himself than you.’

Clover raised his cup to Magweer, who’d picked him out for another dose of glaring as Stour’s manly legend reached its climax. ‘The world’s brimming with folk keen to break me down. Don’t see any reason to do their work for ’em.’

‘You don’t see any reason to do any work at all.’

There was no point denying it. Luckily for Clover, the King of the Northmen chose that moment to struggle up, raising his iron hand for silence.

‘Here comes the wisdom,’ murmured Black Calder, without much relish.

‘My father, Bethod!’ Scale roared at the gathering, swaying from good ale and bad knees. ‘Made himself King of the Northmen! He built cities, and bound them with roads. He forced the clans together, and carved out a nation where there was none before.’ No mention of the thirty years of bloodshed that had got it done. But that’s the nice thing about looking backwards. You can pick out the bits that suit your story and toss the unhappy truths to the wind.

Scale was frowning down into the firepit now. ‘My father was betrayed. My father was struck down! His kingdom torn up like meat between greedy dogs.’ His dewy eyes rolled up, and he pointed to Stour with his good hand. ‘But we’ll put right the wrongs of the past. We’ll finish the Dogman’s fucking Protectorate! We’ll drive the bloody Union out of the North! Stour Nightfall, my nephew and my heir, will rule supreme from the Whiteflow to the Crinna and beyond!’ And he held up his cup, ale slopping over the rim and spattering down his front. ‘Bethod’s dream lives on in his grandson! The Great Wolf!’

And all raised their drinks and competed with each other to roar out Stour’s name the loudest, and Clover and Wonderful raised theirs just as high as anyone else.

‘Still say he’s a prick,’ whispered Clover, smiling wide.

‘More so with each day,’ forced Wonderful through clenched teeth, and they tapped their cups together and took a swallow, because Clover had never worried much over what he drank to, as long as he drank.

Calder didn’t join the toast. Just frowned at his brother as he sagged back down on his bench and bellowed for more ale. ‘Some men never learn,’ he murmured.

‘We all learn.’ Clover watched those old warriors and those young, and ever so gently scratched at his scar. ‘Just some of us have to learn hard.’

A Deal

‘You promised me, Gunnar.’ Liddy’s voice came muffled through the flimsy wall, but easily understood. ‘You promised me you’d stay out of trouble.’

‘I’ve tried, Liddy. I haven’t looked for it, it’s just … it’s found us out.’

‘Trouble has a habit of finding you out.’

Savine looked across the little room at May, light from outside the ill-fitting window catching her clenched jaw, head turned away from her parents’ voices as if to pretend she could not hear them.

‘I’m just trying to get from one day to the next,’ came Gunnar’s voice. ‘Trying to keep things together.’

Keeping things together was no easy task in Valbeck. The riots might mostly have stopped but the heat, and the anger, and the fear hung over the city thick as the vapours had when the furnaces were still lit. Fear of violence. Fear of hunger. Fear of what would happen when the authorities returned. Fear that they might not. Who was in charge depended on who you asked, which part of town you were in, whether it was day or night. If there was any plan in all this madness, all this destruction, Savine could not see it. No one was safe in Valbeck now. Perhaps no one ever truly was. Perhaps safety was a lie people told themselves so they could carry on.

She closed her eyes, and thought of the feeling as she stabbed that squinting man through the chest. As she ran the one with the cap through the back. A slight pressure in her palm. A slight tugging at the grip of the sword. So shockingly easy, to kill a man. She told herself they had given her no choice. And yet she saw their faces whenever she closed her eyes, and felt her breath coming fast, the sweat prickling, her heart thumping the way it had then, rubbing over and over at her itchy, greasy neck with her fingertips.

‘So you’re a Breaker now?’ came Liddy’s voice through the wall.

‘Malmer’s doing the best he can for folk so I’m doing the best I can for him. Stand on the barricades. Hand some food out. I’m not a soldier no more. I’m not a herder no more. What should I be?’

‘My husband. May’s father.’

‘I know. That’s all that matters, but … what should I do?’ It was strange to hear that wheedling, almost tearful note in the voice of a man Savine knew to be so very dangerous. ‘I can’t just sit and do nothing, can I, while people are getting hurt?’

There was no weakness in Liddy’s voice. Her strength amazed Savine, the way she kept going, working, smiling, making the best of this nightmare. ‘It’s a fine line, Gunnar, between helping people and hurting ’em. You’re prone to wander all over it.’