‘You shouldn’t indulge that old fool,’ grumbled Orso.
‘You weren’t there.’ The king’s fingers dug painfully into his wrist. ‘When the Eaters came. You didn’t see … what he is capable of.’ His eyes had the strangest, haunted look. ‘You must promise me never to defy him.’
Orso tried to twist his arm free. ‘What are you talking about—’
‘You must promise me!’
‘A word, Your Majesty!’ called Bayaz, and with one backward glance, the king hurried after the magus like a dog called to heel. Orso took another swallow of wine, then turned back towards Savine, still laughing with the Young Lion.
He would have been furious with her, but he could no more hate her than a drunk can the bottle. He would have been furious with Leo dan Brock, but he had done nothing wrong, the horribly but justifiably vain, magnificently manly, utterly superficial bastard. He was doing exactly what Orso would have done in his place, only looking like a hero while he did it.
The only person in this triangle of misery he could reasonably be furious with was himself. He had ruined it all, somehow. By being too backward, or too forward, too slow or too fast or too something. He knew most people scorned him utterly, but for some reason, though she was the cleverest, bravest, most beautiful woman in the world, she had not. He had let himself believe that she loved him. But it was just another trick. A trick he had played on himself.
‘Women,’ he muttered, helplessly.
‘I know,’ came a voice beside him. ‘Fucking bitches.’
It was that Northern girl. The Dogman’s daughter, Rikke. He had seen her from a distance and thought she looked interesting, with the wild hair and the twitchy gestures and the total lack of usual propriety. Up close, she was a great deal more interesting. She had, for some reason, a heavy gold ring through her nose, and some streaks of dark paint on her freckled face, and a beguiling hint of cleavage showing among a rattling mass of necklaces and talismans that included a rather wonderful and entirely incongruous set of emeralds. But most of all it was her eyes, big and pale and piercing. He felt as if she saw right into him, and wasn’t repulsed by what she found there. Which was welcome, because he certainly was.
Hell, he was drunk.
‘Is it wrong of me …’ he said, mangling the words and not much caring, ‘to say I find you fascinating?’
‘Not at all.’ She gave a haughty sniff, that thick gold ring shifting. ‘You’re a man, you can’t help yourself.’
Despite his attempts to be the tragic hero of his own life, he could not help laughing. ‘It has been remarked upon.’
He had always been the most wretched judge of what he needed, but what he needed right now might be the woman who was least like Savine in the world. And here, as if by magic …
‘I sometimes think no one in this city can tell the truth for three breaths together.’ He waved his glass at the room and slopped some wine onto the tiles. ‘But you seem … honest.’
‘And so funny.’
‘And so funny.’
‘Who the hell are all these bastards?’
‘Well … he’s the court clockmaker. And she’s a famous actress. That bald idiot is a legendary wizard, apparently. I’m told that woman there is a Styrian spy. One of the ones we pretend not to know about.’
Rikke sighed. ‘I’m like an angry chicken trying to pass myself off among swans.’
‘I’ve tried swan, as it happens. Thoroughly mediocre meat, once the feathers are off.’ She might not have worn lady’s clothes but without doubt there was a woman’s shape underneath, and one he found not the slightest fault with. ‘A good chicken, on the other hand …’
‘A man of taste, eh?’
‘It has been remarked upon.’
‘I’m told you’re the heir to all this.’
‘A sad fact.’
She puffed out her cheeks as she glanced about the Hall of Mirrors. ‘All this wealth and flattery must be … such a curse.’
‘It’s made me the useless cunt I am.’
‘You can’t argue with those results.’
‘I’m told you’re a witch who can see the future.’
‘Witch, no. Future, sometimes.’ She winced, pressed a hand to her left eye as though it hurt. ‘A bit too much, lately.’
‘What’s the ring for?’ he asked.
‘Keeps me tethered to the earth.’
‘Or you’ll float off?’
‘I’m prone to fits.’ She thought about that, then snorted laughter and blew some snot onto her top lip. ‘And shits,’ she said as she wiped it away. ‘I’m told you’ve bedded five thousand whores.’
‘I’d be amazed if it’s more than four thousand nine hundred.’
‘Huh.’ She gave him a long, lazy, utterly shameless look up and down. A look that no one within thirty paces could have doubted the meaning of. A look that made him feel at once slightly embarrassed and rather aroused. ‘They teach you anything?’
He realised he had not even glanced at Savine since they started talking. He looked over now. Felt a sour pang of loss as she touched a grinning Leo dan Brock on the chest with her fan.
‘I used to be with him,’ murmured Rikke. She was watching them, too, and looking more than a little sour herself.
‘Fancy that,’ said Orso. ‘I used to be with her.’
‘Doesn’t bother you? Being second-best to the Young Lion?’
‘I’ll confess it stings, but I’m used to being the absolute worst.’ Orso drained his glass and tossed it rattling onto a side table. ‘Second best is an immense improvement.’ He offered her his elbow. ‘Perhaps I could accompany you on a stroll around the palace gardens?’
She turned those bewitching grey eyes on him. ‘Long as it ends in the bedroom.’
A Bit About Courage
The cold nipped at Leo’s ears as they made their way through the darkened streets, but the fires of excitement were burning ever hotter inside. Jurand looked as eager as he was. A playful sparkle in his eye. A handsome flush to his cheek.
‘Where are we going?’ he murmured, his hand on Leo’s shoulder and his voice a little squeaky.
‘Somewhere far from prying eyes, I suppose.’ Leo nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Wouldn’t want to cause a scandal, would we?’
‘Honestly,’ said Jurand, with that grin at the corner of his mouth, ‘I don’t care.’
Leo wasn’t listening. He’d seen the street sign. He’d seen the number. ‘This is the place,’ he whispered, breath smoking in the chilly night.
It was a tall terraced house, a little smoke-blackened, just like a dozen others in this street, which was just like a dozen other streets on the way from the Agriont. Not the most exciting building. But a chink of light shone between shutters in an upstairs window, and Leo felt almost as skittish looking up at it as he had towards that bridge on the day of the battle, ready to order the charge.
‘Thanks for the directions,’ he said. ‘You’re a good friend. The best. I’ll see you tomorrow. At the parade.’ When he turned, grinning, Jurand had the strangest look on his face. Shocked. Dismayed. Let down.
‘Who are you meeting?’ he whispered.
‘The Arch Lector’s daughter. Savine.’ Leo felt a shiver of nerves as he said the name and lowered his voice. ‘Probably best if you don’t mention that to anyone, though.’
‘No.’ Jurand closed his eyes and gave a disbelieving little laugh. ‘You’re right. Of course.’
‘Cheer up.’ Leo hugged him roughly with one arm, looking back to the building. The one lit window. ‘There are plenty of ladies for all of us.’ Though he couldn’t think of any close to Savine dan Glokta’s class.
‘Plenty of ladies,’ Jurand echoed, gloomily. ‘I hope you know what you’re getting into.’