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

‘He doesn’t even merit the older daughter?’ demanded the queen, before Orso had the chance to raise his own objections. ‘I think not.’

And so it went, as Orso marked the turning of morning into afternoon by the steadily decreasing level of wine in the decanter, and dismissed the flower of womanhood, one by one.

‘How could I abide a wife taller than me?’

‘She’s a worse drunk than I am.’

‘At least we know she’s fertile, she’s borne two bastards that I know about.’

‘Is that a nose on her face or a prick?’

He almost wished he was back at the hanging. That, he could theoretically have stopped. Over his mother, he was utterly powerless. His only chance was to wait her out. There were a finite number of women in the Circle of the World, after all.

Eventually, the last portrait was manhandled from the room and the lord chamberlain was left wringing his hands. ‘Your Majesty, Your Highness, I regret—’

‘Finished?’ asked Orso. ‘No portrait of Savine dan Glokta lurking in the hallway?’

Even at this distance, he felt the chill of the queen’s displeasure. ‘For pity’s sake, her mother is a low-born boor, and a drunk to boot.’

‘But an absolute scream at parties, and whatever you say for Lady Ardee, Arch Lector Glokta has the people’s respect. Or at any rate their abject terror.’

‘A crippled worm,’ spat the queen. ‘A torturer!’

‘But our torturer, eh, Mother? Our torturer. And I understand his daughter has made herself quite spectacularly rich.’

‘Money made through trade, and dealings, and investments.’ The queen spat the words as though they were criminal enterprises. For all Orso knew, Savine’s dealings were criminal enterprises. He wouldn’t at all have put it past her.

‘Oh, come now, money shamefully made from trade fills the same holes in the treasury as the kind nobly wrung from the misery of the peasantry.’

‘She is too old! You are too old, and she is even older than you are.’

‘But she has impeccable manners and is still quite the celebrated beauty.’ He waved a loose hand towards the doorway. ‘She’d make a prettier portrait than any of those piglets, and the painter wouldn’t even have to lie. Queen Savine sounds rather well.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘It even rhymes.’

His mother was an icicle of fury. ‘Do you do this just to annoy me?’

‘Not just to annoy you.’

‘Promise me you will have nothing to do with that ambitious worm of a woman.’

‘With Savine dan Glokta?’ Orso sat back with a bemused expression. ‘Her mother’s a commoner, her father’s a torturer and she made her money from business.’ He shook the last drops from the decanter into his glass. ‘Quite apart from which, really, she’s far too bloody old.’

‘Oh,’ he gasped. ‘Oh! Oh fuck!’

He arched his back, clutched desperately at the edge of the desk, kicked a pot of pens onto the floor, smacked his head against the wall and sent a little shower of plaster across his shoulders. He tried desperately to squirm away, but she had him by the balls. Quite literally.

He crushed his face up, nearly swallowed his tongue, coughed and hissed one more desperate, ‘Fuck!’ through gritted teeth, then sagged back with a whimper, kicked and sagged again, legs shuddering weakly with aching after-spasms.

‘Fuck,’ he breathed.

Savine looked around, lips pursed, then took Orso’s half-full wine glass and spat into it. Even under those circumstances, he noticed, she held it by the stem in the most elegant manner. She scraped her tongue against her front teeth, spat again and set the glass down on the desk next to hers.

Orso watched his seed float around in the wine. ‘That … is somewhat disgusting.’

‘Please.’ Savine rinsed her mouth out from the other glass. ‘You only have to look at it.’

‘Such cavalier disrespect. One day, madam, I shall be your king!’

‘And your queen will no doubt spit your come into a golden box to be shared out on holidays for the public good. My congratulations to you both, Your Highness.’

He gave vent to a silly giggle. ‘Why does someone as altogether perfect as you waste her energy on a dolt like me?’

She pushed out her lips discerningly, as though considering the mystery, and for a strange, stupid moment he almost asked her. The words tickled at his lips. There was no one better suited to him. She had all the qualities he wished he had. So sharp. So disciplined. So decisive. Besides, it would have been worth it just for the look on his mother’s face. He almost asked her.

But circumstances always conspired to stop him doing the right thing.

‘I can only think of one reason,’ she said, hitching her skirts up and wriggling onto the desk beside him.

His sweaty arse juddered against the leather as he slid down onto still-wobbly legs, trousers flopping about his ankles. He flipped the box open and sprinkled some pearl dust onto the back of his hand, sniffed half himself then offered her the rest.