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

Vick wondered how many workers would be dying for Risinau’s vainglory. No small number was her guess. Casting down a king two centuries dead was one thing. The one currently on the throne might raise stiffer objections. She was starting to think the ex-Superior was at least half-mad. But then sanity was a rare commodity in Valbeck lately, and didn’t look to be coming back into fashion any time soon.

Practicals were always loitering around Risinau like the dogs around the city’s baking rubbish. They’d put aside the black and taken off the masks, but a sharp eye could still pick out the telltale tan marks around the mouth. They were swarming in the streets near the House of Questions, optimistically renamed the House of Liberty, hunting for anyone disloyal. Or perhaps for anyone loyal. Loyalty had become quite the fluid concept.

The uprising had changed some things, but others seemed wearily familiar. The workers were still working, the Practicals were still watching, the big hats might have moved around, but the men wearing them were still lecturing everyone else on the way things should be while doing none of the work themselves.

Some Great Change.

‘Ever since its founding by that charlatan Bayaz, the Union was always built on the backs of the common folk,’ Risinau was spouting. ‘The coming of the machines, the ever-swelling avarice of investors, the raising up of money as our god and the banks its temples, these are only the latest, bleakest appendices to our sorry history. We must dig new theoretical foundations for the nation, my friends!’

Malmer made another effort at hauling him down to earth. ‘Honestly, I’m more worried over feeding folk. One of the big granaries got burned that first day. Another’s empty. And this heat’s not helping. Few o’ the pumps in the old town are already running dry. The water from some of the others I wouldn’t give to a dog—’

‘The mind needs nourishment, too, brother.’ Risinau waved away a fly, the only things prospering in the stifling city, then grinned at Vick. ‘No doubt Sibalt told you that.’

If Sibalt had told her that, she’d likely have broken his nose. It was the sort of shit only someone who’s never starved could serve up.

‘He was a fine man.’ Risinau struck his fist against his heart. ‘I miss him as one might miss a part of oneself. I think … that must be why I so enjoy conversing with you, sister. It is as close as I can come, now, to talking to him.’

Vick rarely allowed herself the luxury of not liking people. No more often than the luxury of liking them. Either one could get you killed. But she was starting to truly despise Risinau. He was vain as a peacock, selfish as a toddler, and for all his high-flown language, she was starting to suspect he was a fool. Truly clever things are said with short words. Long ones are used to hide stupidity. She could see no way this fat dreamer could have organised this uprising alone. Someone a great deal more formidable had done the heavy lifting. And Vick wanted very much to know who. So she nodded along to his nonsense as though she’d never heard such profound revelations.

‘I arrested him for organising here,’ said Risinau, gazing into the distance. ‘Twenty years ago, just after I joined the Inquisition, and the foundations of the first mills were being laid in Valbeck. We both were young men, then. Idealistic men. I arrested him, but in the end, I could only agree with him. That the workers would be ground down.’ Risinau gave a heavy sigh, the plump hand on his plump gut rising and falling with his breath. ‘I released him. To be my informant, I thought. I told myself that I had turned him, but the truth was … he turned me. We turned each other, maybe. Just the two of us, talking late into the night about the blows we would strike for the common man! Just the two of us … and the Weaver.’

Vick frowned. ‘Aren’t you the Weaver?’

‘A title I borrowed from a better man,’ mused Risinau, before his fickle attention was snatched away. ‘We should draw up a manifesto, don’t you think? Demand a workers’ representative on the Closed Council!’ He had that gleam in his eye again, as though he was gazing off towards a better tomorrow. ‘Sibalt would have loved that idea …’

‘Look, brother.’ Malmer made one more desperate effort at waking the dreamer, stepping in close, making Risinau’s Practicals bristle. ‘I knew Sibalt, too, and he was a good man, but he’s dead. There’s lots of good living folk in need. People are hungry, people are sick, people are scared.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’ll be honest, I’m bloody scared.’

‘You don’t have to be! No one does. We’ve stopped the riots, haven’t we?’

‘In daylight. But there have been beatings. Hangings, even. And not just owners. Foreigners. Servants. Folk are taking the chance to settle scores. To just grab whatever they want. We need order.’