A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  “However early I get here, there’s always a queue,” said a grey-faced, grey-haired old man in a coat worn through at the elbows.

  “More and more folk coming into Valbeck for the work,” muttered one of the others.

  “Always more folk wanting work. Never enough to go around. Used to be I had a house o’ my own, up the valley near Hambernalt. You know it?”

  “Can’t say I do,” muttered Broad, thinking of his own valley. The green trees in the breeze, the green grass soft around his ankles. He knew things were always better in your memory and the farm had been hard work for lean rewards, but it had been green. There was nothing green in Valbeck. Except the river, maybe, stained with great coloured smears from the dyeing works upstream.

  “Beautiful valley, it used to be,” the old man was droning. “Good house, I had, in the woods there, by the river. Raised five boys in it. Used to be good money in coppicing, burning charcoal, you know. Then they started making charcoal cheap in a furnace upstream and the river got full of tar.” He gave a long, helpless sniff. “Prices just kept falling. Then Lord bloody Barezin cleared the forest for more grazing land anyway.”

  A big wagon clattered past, rattling wheels ripping muck out of the road and showering it across the queue, and men grumbled and shouted abuse at the driver and the driver grumbled and shouted abuse at the men, and they all shuffled forwards another half-step.

  “My boys went off to other things. One died in Styria. One got married down near Keln, I heard. I had to borrow and I lost the house. Beautiful valley, it used to be.”

  “Aye, well,” muttered Broad, feeling too sorry for himself to much enjoy anyone else doing the same. “Used to be gets you nowhere.”

  “True enough,” said the old man, right away making Broad wish he’d never spoken. “Why, I remember back when I was a lad—”

  “Shut your fucking hole, y’old dunce,” snapped the man in front of Broad.

  He was a big bastard with a star-shaped scar on his cheek and a piece out of his ear. A veteran, no doubt. The anger in his voice set Broad’s heart thumping. A tickle of excitement.

  The old man stared. “I’m not wanting to cause no offence—”

  “That’s why you should shut your fucking hole.”

  Just stay silent. Just stay out of it. He should’ve learned that lesson, shouldn’t he? Learned it a dozen times and more. He’d promised Liddy. Just hours since he promised her. No more trouble.

  “Leave him be,” growled Broad.

  “What’d you say?”

  Broad took his lenses off and slipped them into his coat pocket, the queue behind the man’s frowning face made a blur.

  “I get it,” said Broad. “You’re disappointed. Don’t reckon any man here had life turn out just the way he hoped, do you?”

  “What d’you know about my hopes?”

  Took everything he had not to smash this bastard’s skull. But he’d promised Liddy. So Broad just took a step forwards, so the spit from his bared teeth flecked the man’s scarred cheek.

  “I know you’ll find none of ’em facing this way.” He lifted his fist. Turned his finger. “Now turn around ’fore I put your fucking head through the wall.”

  The man’s scarred cheek twitched and, just for a moment, Broad thought he might fight. For one beautiful moment, he thought he could stop clinging on, and let go. The first time he’d felt free since he came back from Styria. Well, apart from when he smashed Lennart Seldom’s face in.

  Then the man’s bloodshot eyes found Broad’s fist. The tattoo on the back of it. He grumbled something and turned around. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then he pulled his shabby collar up, and cut out of the line, and stalked away.

  “Thanks for that,” said the old man, knob on the front of his scrawny throat bobbing. “Ain’t many folk left will do the decent thing.”

  “The decent thing.” Broad winced as he worked his fingers open. Seemed the only time they didn’t hurt was when his fists were clenched. “Don’t even know what that is any more.”

  He’d seen a lot of different men at the end of these queues, choosing who got work and who got nothing. Most had developed a liking for watching folk squirm. It had been the same with the officers in Styria. It’s a rare man who’s made better by a bit of power.

  The foreman at the door of Cadman’s Ales looked like one of the better ones, though, sat under a little awning with a big ledger in front of him. Grey-haired and solid, every movement slow and precise, like he’d taken his time and thought out just the right way to do it.

  “My name’s Gunnar Bull,” lied Broad. He was a bad liar, and got the feeling this man saw straight through him.

  “I’m Malmer.” He gave Broad a careful look up and down. “Got any experience with breweries?”

  “Guess I’ve drunk a fair bit o’ their output down the years.” Broad tried a grin, but Malmer didn’t look like joining him. “But no experience with making it, no.” Malmer just gave a slow nod, like he was used to disappointment. “I’ll work hard, though.” He’d had but two hours’ work that week, raking out stables. This was his third stop today, and he couldn’t go home empty-handed. “I’ll shovel coal, or I’ll sweep floors, or… well… whatever you want. I’ll work hard, I promise you that.”

  Malmer gave a sad little smile. “Promises are cheap, friend.”

  “Shitting hell! Is that Sergeant Broad?”

  A lean man with a sandy beard and a stained apron had come striding out of the brewery, hands on hips. Broad knew the face, but it took a while to riddle out where he’d seen it before and slot it into the world he lived in now. “Sarlby?”

  “This is Bull Broad!” Sarlby grabbed Broad’s hand and yanked it like he was trying to get water from a stiff pump. “Remember, Malmer, I told you all about him! Fought with him in Styria! Behind him, anyway, weren’t such a good idea to be in front.”

  Malmer sat back, giving Broad that careful look again. “You told me a lot of stories about Styria. Must confess I somewhat stopped listening.”

  “Well, start fucking listening ’cause this is about the best man I know! First up the ladders at the siege of Borletta! First didn’t fall straight back down, leastways. He was always the first man in. How many times? Five?” He caught Broad’s wrist and pushed his sleeve up to show the stars on his knuckles. “Look at those bastards!” Like he was showing off some prize vegetable. “Look at those bastards.”

  Broad pulled his hand free, drew it up into his sleeve. “I put all that behind me.”

  “In my experience, the past don’t drop back far,” said Malmer. “You’ll vouch for him?”

  “Ain’t a man he served with wouldn’t vouch for him ten times over. By all the fucking Fates, yes, I’ll vouch for him!”

  “Then you’re hired.” Malmer dipped his pen, calmly tapped it off and let it hover over his ledger. “So… Bull? Or Broad?”

  “Gunnar Bull,” said Broad. “Put that down.”

  “Address?”

  “We’re in a cellar on Draw Street. Houses there don’t have numbers.”

  “In the cellars?” Sarlby shook his head in disgust. “We’ll get you out of there, don’t worry.” And he hooked a friendly arm around Broad’s shoulders and led him through into the noisy, smelly warmth of the brewery. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Thought you had a farm somewhere.”

  “Had to sell it,” muttered Broad, stumbling on the lie.

  Sarlby just grinned. “Trouble, eh?”

  “Aye,” croaked Broad. “A little.”

  “Want a nip?” he asked, holding out a flask.

  Broad did, in fact. A lot more than was healthy. Took an effort to force out the words. “Best not. I never could leave it at one.”

  “You weren’t so shy in Styria, as I recall,” said Sarlby, taking a swig.

  “I’m trying not to make the same mistakes twice.”

  “That’s all I ever bloody seem to do! What do you make of Valbeck?”<
br />
  “It’s all right, I guess.”

  “It’s a fucking slag heap. It’s a fucking meat grinder. It’s a fucking pit.”

  “Aye.” Broad puffed out his cheeks. “It’s a pit.”

  “Fine for the rich folks up on the hill but what do we get? We who fought for our country? Open sewers. Three families to a room. Filth in the streets. The weak preyed on by the strong. There was a time folk cared about doing the right thing, wasn’t there?”

  “Was there?”

  But Sarlby didn’t hear. “Now all a man’s worth is how much work can be squeezed from him. We’re husks to be scraped out and tossed away. We’re cogs in the big machine. But there’s those who are trying to make it better.”

  Broad raised a brow at that. “I find men who prate a lot on making things better tend to make ’em a whole lot worse on the way.”

  Sarlby didn’t hear that, either. He’d always been a great one for not hearing things he didn’t want to. Maybe everyone is. He leaned close, like he’d a secret to share. “You heard of the Breakers?”

  “Bandits, ain’t they? Break machines. Burn mills. Traitors, I heard.”

  “Only the fucking Inquisition say so.” Sarlby spat on the sawdust-scattered ground. He’d always been a great one for spitting, too. “The Breakers are going to change things! They don’t just break machines, Broad, they break chains. Your chains and mine.”

  “I’ve got no chains on me.”

  “Says the man living in a cellar on Draw Street. I’m not talking about chains on your wrists, Broad. I’m talking about chains on your mind. Chains on your future! On your children’s futures. The masters’ll be brought low! Those who get fat on our sweat and our pain. The lords and ladies. The kings and princes.” Sarlby’s eyes glittered at the fine future he saw coming. “No more rich old bastards telling us how it’s going to be. Every man with a say in how he’s governed. Every man with a vote.”

  “So no more king?”

  “Every man’ll be a king!”

  Broad might’ve called it treason once, but his patriotic feelings had taken quite the kicking the last couple of years. Now it just sounded like daydreams. “Not sure there’s enough king to go around,” he murmured. “I don’t want trouble, Sarlby. Had more than my share.”

  “Some folk are made for trouble, Bull. You were always at your best with your fists clenched.”

  Broad winced at that. “At my worst, too.”

  “You were there, on the walls. You know how it is. Anything worth anything has to be fought for!” And Sarlby bared his teeth and punched at the air, a Ladderman’s tattoo like Broad’s showing on the back of his fist.

  “Maybe.” Broad felt a tickle of excitement, a stab of joy, but he pushed it away, twisted his own hand up into his sleeve as far as it would go. “But I’ve fought enough.”

  He’d made Liddy a promise. This time, he meant to keep it.

  A Blow for the Common Man

  “Everything ready?” asked Sibalt. Even in the darkness, Vick could sense his nerves, and it didn’t help with hers.

  She glanced up at Moor, a big outline on the wagon’s seat, reins in his hands. She glanced at Tallow, perched beside him, rain beaded on his oversized oilskin. She almost asked again if they were sure they wanted to do this. But there’s a time when doubts might do some good. A time to chew over the risks and the consequences. Then a moment passes. A moment you might not even notice. Then it’s too late, and you’ve got to commit, and give it everything with no backward glances.

  “It’s ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Grise caught her arm in the darkness. “What about them?” And she jerked her head towards the two bedraggled nightwatchmen either side of the foundry’s gate, faces pinched in the light of their own lanterns.

  “They’re paid.”

  “You paid the fuckers?”

  “It’s easier to shift a man with gold than steel, and it almost always ends up cheaper.” And before Grise had the chance to answer, Vick struck out across the street, head down, collar up.

  She glanced each way, but the drizzle was on their side, the lane almost empty. The blood thudded in her head as she walked to the gate. Fear creeping up her throat and making her want to rush, want to shout. She told herself she’d been in tighter corners and knew it was true. She kept her breaths deep, her steps slow.

  “Got a delivery for you,” she said, shocked by how calm her own voice sounded.

  The nightwatchman lifted his lantern to get a look at her and Vick narrowed her eyes at the glare. He knocked on the gates and there was the clatter of a bar being lifted. They took deliveries all night here. Nothing to remark upon.

  “Let’s go!” called Vick, and Moor gave the reins a flick, brought the wagon across the muddy street and through into the darkened yard. Coal heaps and wood stacks were gloomy ghosts, glistening with wet. The side of the shed loomed up, cliff-like, the angry gleam of fires beyond the windows.

  Moor called softly to the big carthorse and slipped on the brake, handed the reins to Tallow. Sibalt clambered down from the back of the wagon, wiping his hands on his leather apron.

  “Working so far,” he muttered as he walked with Vick to the great foundry door.

  “So far,” she said. The big padlock had been left open and she slid it from the hasp, planted her hands on the big handle next to Sibalt’s. His hands and hers, side by side. They heaved together, wheels clattering as the door slid open.

  A waft of heat spilled from inside. The furnaces, and the engines, and the forges still giving off a welcoming glow. It’d never be cold in here, never be dark. Vick picked out the black outlines of the ironwork. The skeleton of the building. The pillars where they’d pack the powder.

  She started back towards the wagon as Sibalt slid the door all the way open. Grise had already unlashed the tarp and dragged it away, the barrels showing underneath.

  “All right,” hissed Vick at her, “let’s get that first one—”

  Light flooded the yard and they all stood frozen, blinking in the glare. Hooded lanterns, suddenly opened all around them. Grise on the back of the wagon, rope in her hands. Moor with fingers hooked under the first barrel. Tallow holding the reins, his eyes bigger than ever. Sibalt in the wide doorway of the foundry.

  That fast, their plans turned to shit.

  “Hold!” bellowed a voice. “In the name of His Majesty!”

  The big carthorse startled, dragged the wagon screeching forwards with its brake on. Grise tumbled over the side.

  Moor stood, letting go of the barrel and snatching up a hatchet.

  Tallow gave a high shriek. Not even a word.

  There was a clicking, a fluttering. Bolts thudded into the wagon’s side. Thudded into Moor, too.

  Vick was already running. She caught Sibalt and dragged him into the foundry. They wove between the engines, the wagons, the rails, as they whipped up from the firelit gloom. Sibalt gasped as he slipped and went bowling into some crates, lengths of metal scattering across the stones with a clash and clang.

  She helped him up, nearly falling herself, pulled him on, her breath and his hissing and wheezing, their slapping footfalls echoing from the roof high above. She glanced back, saw lights twinkling, a flicker of movement, heard shouts in the darkness.

  She gasped as something caught her head—a dangling chain, left swinging in her wake. A few more steps and Sibalt grabbed her by the elbow, dragged her down into a shadowy space between two great iron tanks. She was about to ask why when she saw the lights ahead. Heard the footsteps. They were closing in from both sides.

  “They were waiting,” whispered Sibalt. “Knew we were coming.”

  “Who told ’em?” hissed Vick.

  There was something strange about his face in the half-light. She was used to seeing him weighed with worries, now he looked like his load had been lifted. Vick glanced down and saw he had a dagger in his fist, the orange of the furnaces glinting along its edge. She drew away a little on an in
stinct. “You don’t think it was me?”

  “No. But it doesn’t matter.”

  She could hear Grise screaming somewhere. “Come on, you fuckers! Come on!”

  “You said it yourself,” said Sibalt. “Once they get you, everyone talks. Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this.”

  “What are you saying?” Her voice didn’t sound calm any more.

  He smiled at her. That sad little smile. “Wish I’d met you sooner. Things might’ve been different. But the time comes… you have to stand up.” And he rammed the dagger into his own neck.

  “No,” she hissed. “No, no, no!” She had her hands to his throat but it was ripped right open, blood welling black. Nothing she could do. Her hands were sticky to the elbows already. Her trousers soaked with blood as it spread in a great warm slick.

  Sibalt stared up at her, spluttering black from his mouth, from his nose. Maybe he was trying to give her some message. Regret, or forgiveness, or hope, or blame. No way of knowing.

  Grise’s screams had turned to meaningless screeches, then muffled gurgles. The sounds of someone with a bag forced over their head.

  Sibalt’s eyes were glassy now, and Vick let go of his leaking neck. She sat back against iron still hot from the day’s work, her red hands dangling.

  And that’s where she was when the Practicals found her.

  Knowing the Arrow

  Rikke crashed down the slope, trees and sky bouncing, all their careful plans flung away along with her cloak and her bow. That’s the trouble with plans. Not many survive being chased through a downpour by a pack of dogs. Wet brambles clutched at her ankle, snatched it from under her and she reeled, howl cut off as she smashed face-first into a tree, fell and rolled helpless through thorn bushes, over and over, yelping with every bounce and giving a long groan as she slid on her face through a heap of sodden leaves.

  She looked up to see a big pair of boots. She looked up higher and saw a man standing in them, looking down with an expression more of puzzlement than triumph.