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

Orso silenced him with that raised hand, without taking his eyes from Malmer’s. ‘I fear the alternative is that I order Colonel Forest to surround the city and let nothing in or out. I have quite cleared my calendar and can wait as long as it takes. When you surrender, which you surely must, it will not be to me, but to Superior Pike.’

It hardly needed to be said that there was no comfort to be found in the Superior’s melted face. Malmer slowly sat back and gave Orso weighty consideration. ‘Why should we trust you?’

‘I can understand why you wouldn’t. But in light of the circumstances, I believe this to be a generous offer. I know it to be the very best you can hope for.’

Malmer glanced at Heron. Then at Teufel. Neither gave anything away. ‘I’ll need to discuss it with my people.’

‘Of course,’ said Orso, standing. He offered his hand as Malmer got to his feet. The old Breaker frowned at it for a moment, then folded it in his big paw.

Orso held on firmly. ‘But I must insist on an answer by sundown today.’

‘You’ll have it.’ Malmer considered him a moment longer. ‘Your Highness.’ He strode weightily from the room, his twitchy friend at his back. Teufel’s chair screeched on the tiled floor as she stood, gave Orso one last blast of scorn, then turned her back on the meeting. The door clicked shut.

‘That was well done, Your Highness.’ There was the faintest suggestion of surprise about Superior Pike’s hairless brows, and who could blame him? Orso had been diligently fostering low expectations for the past decade. ‘Quite masterfully done.’

‘I must confess, I had considerable help.’ Orso fished the list of demands from his jacket. ‘From the woman with the face like a pickaxe.’

Pike blinked down at Orso’s entire negotiating strategy, arranged in careful blocks of neat writing. ‘She must be the Arch Lector’s agent within the city.’

‘I cannot see another explanation. It appears she has worked her way into a position of some trust among the Breakers.’

‘Impressive.’ Pike frowned towards the door. ‘A great deal now hangs on her assessment.’

‘It does indeed, Superior.’ Orso felt a sting of worry as he thought about Savine. Alone in the city. A hostage? A corpse? He grimaced. He had a bastard of a headache coming up behind the eyes.

Perhaps it wasn’t too early for that drink after all.

Taking the Reins

Rikke’s nose tingled with the chill before dawn, and the breath of the wounded men made plumes of smoke.

She wondered how many were laid out in that glade. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more. Hunched and bloodstained healers moved among them, stitching, bandaging, setting, giving food and water and what comfort they could. It wasn’t much.

There was a low drone, like one of those flowering bushes the bees can’t leave alone, but made of murmurs, whimpers, groans and sobs. A chorus of pain. Quite the downer, all told. Rikke shivered and pulled the fur tight around her neck with her free hand.

‘Hold it higher, I said.’

‘Sorry.’ Her shoulder ached as she lifted the torch again so Isern could see her business, tongue tip wedged into the gap in her teeth as she stitched the red wound in a boy’s shoulder. He had a stick to bite on, eyes closed and tear-tracks gleaming on his pink cheeks.

‘Never really thought of you as a healer,’ said Rikke, wincing as Isern sponged blood away with a rag.

‘No?’

‘Didn’t think you’d be gentle enough.’

‘Gentle? Ha! If you’re wounded, a gentle healer’s the last thing you want.’ Isern made the boy gurgle as she dug the needle back into his shoulder. ‘If you’re wounded, a gentle healer could be the last thing you get. A great healer needs to be tougher and more ruthless than a great warrior. They’re taking on a far harder job with far less reward.’

One of the other healers grunted agreement around the little knife she was holding in her teeth.

Isern gave Rikke a significant look from under her brows. ‘A great healer, like a great leader, must make of her heart a stone.’

The lad Isern was working on pulled the spit-slathered stick out of his mouth. ‘For the dead’s sake, don’t distract her.’

‘I can stitch you and talk to her at once, boy.’ And Isern plucked the stick from his hand, shoved it back between his jaws and carried on stitching.

Rikke looked wide-eyed across the groaning glade. ‘So many wounded.’

‘And these are the best-looking ones. The ones who might yet get up.’

‘You wonder why they keep doing it.’

‘What, war?’

‘Aye, war.’

‘Maybe they wouldn’t if all the Named Men came down here to have their faces rubbed in what’s growed from what they’ve sowed, but they don’t come down here, do they? Not very nice down here, d’you see? Not much shiny metal, except the bits we dig out o’ the dying men. Women’s work, isn’t it, healing?’

Sounded a touch hypocritical in Isern’s case, since Rikke had seen her kill at least five men with that spear of hers, but as a general principle it was hard to disagree. ‘They break,’ she murmured, ‘we make.’