A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  She was wondering whether she should just piss where she sat when the door opened.

  A man came in. Or was brought in. He sat in a strange chair on wheels, pushed by a Practical of monstrous size. He was silver-haired, his skin almost as pale as his spotless white coat and deeply lined, as if stretched too tight over the bones. His face was twisted, left eye twitchily narrowed. On his little finger he wore a ring of office with a great purple stone, but even without it there was no mistaking him.

  Old Sticks. The Cripple. The King’s Skinner. The axle around which the Closed Council turned. His Eminence, Arch Lector Glokta.

  “I like your chair,” said Vick as it squeaked to a halt on the other side of the table.

  The Arch Lector raised one brow. “I don’t. But walking pains me more every year and my daughter tells me there is no nobility in suffering. She prevailed upon her friend Master Curnsbick to make it for me.”

  “The great machinist himself?”

  “I hear he is a genius.” Glokta glanced up at the vast Practical looming over him, the chair’s handles lost in his immensity of fist. “Now a useless man can render a useful man useless wheeling him around. There’s progress, eh? Remove her restraints, please.”

  “Your Eminence?” came muffled from behind the Practical’s mask.

  “Come, come, we are not animals.”

  The Practical took a little wedge from his pocket, knelt and slipped it under one of the chair’s wheels with surprising daintiness. Then he lumbered around the table, manacles digging into Vick’s skin as he unlocked them. Her wrists were chafed raw, but she made sure not to rub them. Made sure not to wince or flinch or stretch or groan. Not even when she put her hands on the table and saw Sibalt’s blood still crusted under the nails. Show hurt, you’re asking to be hurt. She’d learned that lesson in the camps. Learned it hard.

  Arch Lector Glokta watched her, the trace of a smile on his twisted face, as though he guessed her every thought. “And the clothes, please.”

  The Practical unhappily placed a neatly folded shirt and pair of trousers on the table, and twitched one corner of the fabric like a fussy valet.

  “You can leave us, Dole.”

  “Your Eminence?” The Practical’s voice went squeaky with dismay.

  “I have better things to do than repeat myself.”

  The Practical gave Vick one last frown, backed to the door, stooped beneath the lintel and pulled it shut. The latch dropped with a final-sounding click, leaving her alone in that bare, white room with the most feared man in the Union.

  “So.” He showed the yawning gap in his front teeth as he smiled. “It seems congratulations are in order again, Inquisitor Teufel. Ever so neatly done. I knew my confidence in you was not misplaced.”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

  “Shall I turn my back while you dress?” He squinted down at the wheels of his chair. “I’m afraid it can take a while. Nowhere near so nimble as in my youth. I won the Contest without conceding a touch, you know—”

  She made her own chair squeal as she stood, ignoring the ache in her stiff hip. “Don’t worry.” And she shook the shirt out and started pulling it on.

  You strip a prisoner to make them feel vulnerable. Make them feel they’ve nowhere they can hide a secret. But it only works if you let it. Vick made sure she dressed just the way she would have if she was alone. When you grow up in the camps, sleeping beside strangers, sharing their warmth, their stink, their lice, hosed down in a cringing pack by the guards when the sickness comes through, modesty is a luxury you soon learn to live without.

  “I can only apologise that it took me so long to reach you,” said His Eminence, as unmoved by her nakedness as she was. “The government is in uproar over this fighting in the North. Did we get them all?”

  “All except Sibalt. He…” Vick kept her face carefully expressionless as she thought of him ramming the blade into his neck. “He killed himself rather than be captured.”

  “Unfortunate. I know the two of you had become… involved.”

  The Arch Lector found out everything, of course. But it was as if his saying it, his knowing it, made it real. The feeling took her by surprise. She had to stop buttoning her shirt, look at the floor with her teeth gritted, stay silent in case her voice gave her away. Just for a moment. Then she carried on fastening the buttons with her blood-crusted fingers, mask back on. “Is that a problem, Your Eminence?”

  “Not for me. We all yearn for a simple world, but people are imperfect, unpredictable, contradictory beasts with sympathies, and needs, and feelings. Even people like us.”

  “Feelings didn’t come in to it,” said Vick, pulling on the trousers.

  She had a sense he saw through her. “If they did not, you have demonstrated your commitment. If they did, you have gone one better and demonstrated your loyalty.”

  “I know what I owe you. I don’t forget.”

  “I try never to blame a person for what they think. Only for what they do. And you have done all I could have asked.”

  Vick sat back in the chair, facing him. “Sibalt was the leader. I doubt any of the others know much.”

  “We will soon see.”

  Vick looked him in his eyes. Those deep-set, fever-bright eyes. “They’re not bad people. They just want a little more.”

  “I thought feelings did not come into it?” The Arch Lector’s left eye had started to weep, and he pulled out a white handkerchief and gently dabbed it. “You grew up in the camps, Inquisitor Teufel.”

  “You know I did, Your Eminence.”

  “You have seen humanity in the raw.”

  “About as raw as it gets, Your Eminence.”

  “So tell me. These good people. If they get a little more, what will they want then?”

  Vick paused a moment, but there was nothing else to say. “A little more.”

  “Because that is the nature of people. And their little more must be taken from someone else, and that someone else will be less than delighted. One cannot eliminate unhappiness any more than one can eliminate darkness. The goal of government, you see,” and the Arch Lector prodded at the air with his bony forefinger, “is to load the unhappiness onto those least able to make you suffer for it.”

  “What if you misjudge who can make you suffer?”

  “Misjudgement is as much a part of life as unhappiness. It is nice to hold the power and make the choices for everyone. But the risk of making any choice is always that you might make the wrong one. We must make our choices nonetheless. Fear of being a grown-up is a poor reason to remain a child.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence.” There’s only so much you can do. Then you move on. The camps had taught her that lesson, too.

  “Where did they get the Gurkish Fire?”

  “They spoke of friends in Valbeck.”

  “More Breakers?”

  “A more organised group, perhaps. They mentioned the Weaver.”

  Glokta gave no reaction to the name. But then he buried his feelings even more deeply than Vick did. If he still had any. However hard the camps, they were soft beside the place where he learned his lessons.

  “Valbeck is a large city,” he said, “and growing every day. New mills. New slums. But it is somewhere to start. I shall ask your friends about their friends in Valbeck, and see if we can learn any more about this… Weaver.”

  Just one more try, maybe. Vick sat forward, clasping her hands. “With your permission—I think the boy Tallow might be turned.”

  “You can ensure his loyalty?”

  “He has a sister. With her in custody…”

  The Arch Lector flashed that toothless smile. “Very well. You can go next door and deliver him from his chains. I am glad someone will get good news tonight. No doubt you will want to be on your way to Valbeck. To rip this conspiracy up by the roots.”

  “I am eager to begin, Your Eminence.”

  “Don’t work too hard. Practical Dole!” The door flew open, the hulking Practical
almost filling the frame. “Wheel me out, would you?” Dole fished up the wedge, wheels squeaking as he pulled the chair away, but Glokta stopped him in the doorway with a raised finger and looked back. “You did the right thing.”

  “I know, Your Eminence,” she said, meeting his sunken eyes. “I’ve no doubts.”

  When you tell a lie, you have to sound like you believe it.

  Goes double for the ones you tell yourself.

  Tallow stared at her with those big eyes, manacled hands on the table and his scrawny shoulders hunched around his ears. He really did look like her brother. There were no marks on him yet. That was something, she supposed.

  “Did you escape from them?” he whispered.

  Vick gave a sad smile as she sat down opposite him, in the chair for the one who asks the questions. “No one escapes from them.”

  “Then—”

  “I am them.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, and she wondered if he might scream insults at her. If he might kick and scratch and go wild. But he was too clever or too scared. He just looked down at the stained tabletop and said, “Oh.”

  “Do you know who I was just talking to, next door?”

  Tallow slowly shook his head.

  “His Eminence the Arch Lector.”

  Those eyes went even bigger. “Here?”

  “In his crippled person. You’re a lucky boy. You’ve never seen him work. I have.” And she gave a long, soft whistle. “Old Sticks, well, he’ll be winning no footraces. But when it comes to making folk talk, believe me, there’s no one faster. My guess is your friend Grise will already be telling him everything she knows about everything.”

  “She’s strong,” he said.

  “No, she’s not. But it doesn’t matter. Once you’re stripped and alone and he starts cutting, there’s no strong that’s strong enough.”

  Tallow blinked, tears glistening in his eyes. “But she’s—”

  “Put her out of your mind. She’s already hanged. Moor’s dead, and Sibalt…” Her throat was tight of a sudden.

  “Sibalt?”

  “He’s dead, too.”

  “You say it like you’re proud.”

  “I’m not. But I’m not ashamed, either. They made their choice, you heard me ask them. Just like I asked you.”

  Tallow paused a moment, licking his lips. No fool, this lad. “Grise is hanged, but… not me?”

  “You catch on fast. For you there’s a door still open. For you… and your sister.” He blinked at that. Poor little bastard would’ve been the worst card player in the Union. It was as if his every feeling were written on his pinched-in face. “I told His Eminence maybe you could be saved. Maybe you could be of service to the king.”

  “What kind of service?”

  “Whatever kind I pick.”

  He looked down at the table. “Betraying my brothers.”

  “I expect so.”

  “What choices do I have?”

  “Just this one, and you’re damn lucky to be getting it.”

  Now he looked up, a little unexpected hardness in his eyes. “Then why even ask?”

  “So you understand what you owe me.” She got up, slipping the key out, and unlocked his chains. Then she tossed him his clothes. “Get dressed. Then get some sleep. We’ll be leaving for Valbeck in the morning. Need to know where those dullards got three barrels of Gurkish Fire.”

  Tallow just sat there, skinny wrists still in the open manacles. “Was any of it true?”

  “Any of what?”

  “What you told us?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “A good liar lies as little as possible.”

  “So… you really did grow up in the camps?”

  “Twelve years. Girl and woman. My parents and my sisters died there.” She swallowed. “My brother, too.”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t understand. “You’ve lost as much as anyone.”

  “More than most.”

  “Then how can you—”

  “Because if I learned one thing in the camps…” She leaned down over him, baring her teeth, making him shrink back into his chair. “It’s that you stand with the winners.”

  The Machinery of State

  “Lord Marshal Brint,” said Orso. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I know you must be a very busy man.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” The lord marshal had one arm and no imagination, everything from his highly polished cavalry boots to his highly waxed moustache stiff, starched and according to regulation. “Your father is an old friend.”

  “Not to mention the High King of the Union.”

  The marshal’s smile slipped just a fraction. “Not to mention that. How can I help?”

  “I wish to speak to you concerning our response to the attack by Scale Ironhand and his Northmen.”

  Brint gave a bitter snort. “I only wish there’d be one! Those money-grubbing swindlers on the Closed Council refuse to release the funds. Can you believe it?”

  “I cannot. But I have managed to persuade my father to give me command of an expeditionary force.”

  “You have?”

  “Well—”

  “That’s excellent news!” The lord marshal sprang up, pacing to his maps, passing a highly polished suit of armour which he must have worn in his youth, if at all, as it still had both its arms. “We’ll show these Northern bastards something, I can tell you!”

  Orso had feared a career soldier might be upset to see a prince placed in command, but Brint looked positively delighted. “I realise I am without military experience, Lord Marshal, unless playing with toy soldiers as a boy counts.” Or fucking whores in uniform, of course.

  “That is why you employ officers, Your Highness.” Brint was lost in contemplation of his charts, judging distances with spread thumb and forefinger. “I would suggest Colonel Forest as a second in command. He entered the army as an enlisted man long before me and has fought in every major war since. I cannot think of anyone with hotter experience or a cooler head.”

  Orso smiled. “I would be most grateful for his advice, and yours.”

  “Lady Governor Finree is holding the enemy most courageously. Hell of a woman. Old friend of mine, you know. If she can continue to do so, we could land here!” And he slapped the map so hard, Orso was concerned he might do injury to the one hand he still had. “Just near Uffrith, outflank the bastards!”

  “Excellent! Outflank. Bastards. Wonderful.” He really needed to find out what outflanking was, but other than that it was all coming together! The stern calls of a drill sergeant floated through the window from the yard outside, lending the interview an appropriately military flavour. Orso almost wished he’d worn his uniform for the occasion, though it was probably a little tight around the belly these days. He’d have to see about getting a new one for the campaign. “All I need now is the men.”

  Brint looked around. “Pardon me?”

  “My father has promised me a battalion of the King’s Own, as well as his First Guard, Bremer dan Gorst, who I understand is worth a company himself,” and he gave a laugh which Brint by no means returned, “but I do require… somewhere in the region of, well, five thousand more?”

  Silence stretched out.

  “You don’t have the men?” hissed Brint, spit flecking from his lips.

  “Well… that’s why I’ve come to you, Lord Marshal. I mean to say… you’re a lord marshal.” Orso winced. “Aren’t you?”

  Brint took a deep breath and regained command of himself. “I am, Your Highness, and I apologise. I find it difficult to keep my perspective where these Northmen are concerned.” He frowned down at a ring on his little finger, pushed at it with his thumb-tip. A lady’s ring, by the look of it, with a yellow stone. “Lost a wife to the savages, as well as two close friends. Not to mention a bloody arm.”

  “No need for apologies, Lord Marshal, I entirely understand.”

  “I hope you don’t think that I resent your entirely re
asonable request. I applaud it.” Brint snorted, glancing towards his empty sleeve. “Or would, had I the equipment. I’m just embarrassed that I cannot give you the men, and ashamed not to have sent help to the lady governor already. Several regiments were disbanded following the war in Styria and what remains is spread thin. The rebellion in Starikland never ends.” He waved the arm he had towards another map. “And now there’s widespread unrest among the peasantry in Midderland. These bloody Breakers, curse them, making humble folk dissatisfied with their place in the world. Honestly, I’m concerned about the battalion your father has already promised you. There’s not the slightest possibility of my recruiting more without additional funds from the lord chancellor.”

  “Hmmm.” Orso sat back, arms folded. It seemed, like most things in life, this was going to be a great deal more difficult than he had hoped. “It’s a question of money, then?”

  “Your Highness,” and Lord Marshal Brint gave a sigh that bespoke an infinite weariness, “it is always a question of money.”

  “Lord Chancellor Gorodets, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I know you must be a very busy man.”

  “I am, Your Highness.”

  There was a pregnant pause, during which the lord chancellor gazed levelly at Orso over the top of his gold-rimmed eye-lenses. He was a toad of a man with a taste for rich sauces, his many chins swelling expansively over his fur collar. Orso wished, not for the first time that day, that he was a great deal more drunk. But if he was to prevail against the impenetrable machinery of state, he would need every faculty.

  “Let me get straight to the point, then,” he said. “I am eager—as I am sure every right-thinking man in the Union must be—to rush to the aid of our hard-pressed brothers and sisters in Angland.”

  Gorodets gave a grimace of almost physical pain. “A war.”