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

‘My weight is spread.’ And she pumped out three more jabs, lightning-quick.

‘Spread it more. I know how much you hate to do anything badly.’

‘Almost as much as you hate to see me do anything badly.’

‘Spread your weight, then. We’ll both be happier.’

She widened her stance and let go some more jabs, her steel scraping against Gorst’s.

‘Better?’ asked her father.

It clearly was, but they both knew she would never concede defeat by admitting it. ‘We’ll see. How are things in the North?’

‘A procession of disappointments, like most of life. The Northmen advance, the Anglanders fall back.’

‘People say we can expect no better with a woman leading our troops.’ Savine lunged, steel clashing as Gorst caught her sword on his own and steered it wide.

‘We both know what utter fools people are.’ Her father sneered the word as though the very thought of humans disgusted him. ‘Since the death of her father, I daresay Finree dan Brock is the Union’s most competent general. You know her, don’t you, Gorst?’

The king’s hulking bodyguard, normally beyond expressionless, winced. ‘A little, Your Eminence.’

‘I wish I could have given her the command in Styria,’ said Savine’s father. ‘We might have been counting our victories now, rather than our dead. Jab, then!’

‘Brock against Murcatto, that would have been something.’ Savine hissed as she snapped out another flurry. ‘The two greatest armies in the Circle of the World, both commanded by women.’

‘They’d probably have decided there were better things to spend the money on and talked the whole thing out. Then where would we be? Enough with the point, let’s see what you can do with the edge. And cut like you mean it, Savine, he’s not made of glass.’

She darted at Gorst as if to go right, switched to the left with a savage cut at head height. He dropped points and jerked away, fast as a snake in spite of his size, eyes focused on the blade as it whistled past his nose.

‘Excellent,’ he squeaked.

She gave her steels a little flourish. ‘Can Brock beat the Northmen alone?’

‘She’s still gathering her forces in Angland,’ said her father, ‘and she has the Dogman with her, but Scale Ironhand has them well outnumbered. My guess is the Protectorate will be overrun but she’ll hold the Northmen at the Whiteflow. Then, perhaps, circumstances will change here and we can swoop in next spring and reap the glory.’

‘The women do the hard work and the men reap the glory. Sounds familiar.’

‘Petulance is unbecoming in a swordswoman. Cut, girl. Put some blood into it.’

Savine darted around Gorst, shoes squeaking on the wooden floor, slashing away from every angle. For all he scarcely seemed to move, his steels were always in the right place to parry.

‘My daughter has quick feet, eh, Gorst?’

‘Very quick, Your Eminence.’

‘That’ll be your mother’s dancing lessons. Sad to say, I don’t dance much myself these days.’

‘A shame,’ said Savine as she circled, looking for an opening, sweat tickling at her stubbled scalp. ‘I imagine the Closed Council could use some clever footwork. If Brock loses, you’ll look like cowards and fools.’

‘Even bigger cowards and fools than we do already.’

‘If she wins, she’ll gild her own reputation. And her son’s.’

‘Leonault dan Brock.’ Her father sneered, showing his empty gums again. ‘The Young Lion.’

‘Who comes up with these ridiculous names?’

‘Writers, I daresay. I saw lions when I was on campaign in Gurkhul. Stupid beasts. Especially the males. That’s enough. Break.’

Savine took a hard breath, pulling her padded tunic open to let some air in. She had sweated clean through her shirt. She wondered, as she scrubbed her shaved head with a towel, whether the fine gentlemen of the Solar Society would recognise her now, without powder, jewels, dress, wig. More than likely they would smell money through the sweat and swarm around her just the same.

‘We could adjust your grip a little.’ Her father leaned forwards, bones shifting under the pale skin of his hand as he gripped his cane to rise.

‘No, no.’ She stepped over to put a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re not hurting yourself just to show me how to grip a sword.’ She took the blanket from the arm of his chair and draped it over his legs, tucked it in carefully around him. By the Fates, he felt thin. It would have been unfair to call him skin and bone. There was scarcely any skin on him.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

His left eye twitched. ‘Have you noticed the nation falling?’

‘Not this morning.’

‘Then I suppose I’m still alive today. You might want to check again tomorrow, though. I’ve enemies everywhere. In the palace. On the Closed Council. On the Open Council. In the fields and the factories. The Anglanders were furious with me before the war, they’re downright incandescent now. I’m hated everywhere.’

‘Not here,’ she said. As close to a declaration of affection as she was ever likely to utter.

‘That’s more than enough for me.’ He gently touched her face, fingertips cold on her sweaty cheek. ‘And far, far more than I deserve.’