Curnsbick held out his hand to present her. ‘And this is—’
‘Savine dan Glokta, of course,’ said the king. ‘It makes one very proud, to see one’s subjects showing such … enterprise and determination.’ He gave a strange little shake of his fist. So strong a gesture, so weakly delivered. ‘I’ve always admired people who … make things.’
Savine sank lower still. She had long ago become used to men staring at her. Had learned to tolerate it, to deflect it gracefully, to turn it to her advantage. But the look the king was giving her was not the usual kind. There was something awfully sad behind his blandly handsome grin.
‘Your Majesty is far too kind,’ she said.
‘Not kind enough.’ She wondered if he had somehow found out about her and his son. Had Orso let something slip? ‘With such young women to lead the way, the Union’s future looks bright indeed.’
Fortunately, there was a commotion further down the hall. A knight herald pushed through the crowd, winged helmet tucked under one arm. ‘Your Majesty, I have news.’
The king looked mildly annoyed. ‘That’s your job, isn’t it? Could you be more specific?’
‘News … from the North.’ He leaned in to whisper, and the king’s fixed smile sagged.
‘My apologies, Lady Savine. My apologies, everyone! I am needed at the Agriont.’ The gilt edge of His Majesty’s cloak snapped as he spun on one highly polished heel, his retinue crowding after like a gaggle of self-important ducklings behind their mother, not a smile among them.
Curnsbick puffed out his cheeks. ‘Do you think we could call ourselves endorsed by His Majesty after a visit of half a minute?’
‘A visit’s a visit,’ muttered Savine. The chatter was already louder than ever, people flocking towards the doors, jostling one another in their haste to be first to learn the news. And to profit by it. ‘Find out what that knight herald had to say,’ she murmured to Zuri. ‘Oh, and make a note – I would like Kaspar dan Arinhorm to have troubles with his business in Angland.’
Zuri slipped her pencil from behind her ear. ‘Rumours, regulations, or just no one answering his letters?’
‘Let’s start with a bit of each and see how we go.’
Savine had not made society a snakepit. She was simply determined to slither to the top of it and stay there. If that meant being the most venomous reptile in Adua, so be it.
Fencing with Father
‘Wake up, Your Highness.’ And there was the hideous scraping of curtains being flung wide.
Orso forced one eye open a slit, holding up a hand to block the savage glare. ‘I thought I said you shouldn’t call me that.’ He lifted his head, but it began to throb in a most unpleasing manner, so he let it drop. ‘And how dare you presume to wake the heir to the throne?’
‘I thought you said I shouldn’t call you that?’
‘I’m being inconsistent. The Crown Prince of the Union—
‘And Talins, theoretically.’
‘—can be as inconsistent as he damn well pleases.’ Orso’s fumbling hand closed about the handle of a jug and he lifted it and took a swig, realised too late there was stale ale in it rather than water, and spat it over the wall in a mist.
‘Your Highness will have to be inconsistent while dressing,’ said Tunny. ‘There’s news.’
Orso looked for water, couldn’t see any, and swigged down the dregs of the ale after all. ‘Don’t tell me that blonde from yesterday was carrying the cock-rot.’ He tossed the jug rolling across the floor and sagged back into bed. ‘The last thing I need is another dose—’
‘Scale Ironhand and his Northmen have invaded the Protectorate. They’ve burned Uffrith.’
‘Pfft.’ Orso thought about grabbing a shoe and throwing it at Tunny but decided he couldn’t be arsed, so he rolled over and cuddled up to that girl, what’s-her-name, pressing his half-hard cock into the small of her back where it was warm and making her give a semi-conscious mew of upset. ‘That isn’t funny.’
‘You’re damn right it isn’t. Lady Governor Finree dan Brock is fighting a brave rearguard action along with the Dogman and her son Leo, the big, bold Young Lion, but they’re giving ground before the terror of the Northmen and their fearsome champion Stour Nightfall, the Great Wolf, who’s sworn to drive the damn Southerners out of Angland.’ There was a brief silence. ‘We’re the damn Southerners, in case you’re wondering.’
Orso managed to get both eyes open at once. ‘You’re not joking?’
‘You’ll know when I’m joking because Your Highness will be laughing.’
‘What the—’ Orso felt a sudden stab of … something. Worry? Excitement? Anger? Jealousy? Some feeling, anyway. It was so long since he really had one it was like a spur in his backside. He scrambled out of bed, got one foot tangled in the sheet, kicked it free and accidently kicked what’s-her-name in the back.
‘The hell?’ she mumbled as she sat up, trying to claw hair tangled with wine out of her face.
‘Sorry!’ said Orso. ‘Terribly sorry, but … Northmen! Invaded! Lions and wolves and whatever!’ He grabbed his little box and took a pinch of pearl dust up each nostril. Just to blow away the cobwebs. ‘Someone should bloody do something.’ As the burning at the back of his nose faded, that feeling became sharper. So sharp it made him shiver, the hairs on the backs of his arms standing up. You could try doing something to be proud of, his mother had said. Might this be his chance? He had scarcely even realised how much he wanted one.
He looked from the empty bottles about the bed to Tunny, standing against the wall with his arms folded. ‘I should do something! Draw me a bath!’
‘Hildi’s already doing it.’
‘Where are my trousers?’ Tunny tossed them over and Orso snatched them from the air. ‘I have to see my father right away! Is it Monday?’
‘Tuesday,’ said Tunny as he swaggered from the room. ‘He’ll be fencing.’
‘Then see if you can find my steels as well!’ bellowed Orso as the door swung shut.
‘For pity’s sake, shut up,’ moaned what’s-her-face, pulling the covers over her head.
‘One touch a piece!’ The king grinned hugely as he offered his hand.
‘Well fought, Your Majesty.’ Orso let his father pull him to his feet, rubbing at his bruised ribs as he stooped to retrieve his fallen steel. He had to admit he was feeling the pace. His padded jacket seemed rather more padded than the last time he wore it. Perhaps his mother was right and he had passed the age where he could get away with anything. One sober day a week might be a good idea, from now on. A morning a week, at any rate.
But circumstances always conspired to stop him doing the right thing. By then, one of the servants was floating across the perfectly manicured lawn with two glasses on his polished tray.
The king wedged his long steel under his arm to sweep one up. ‘A little refreshment?’
‘You know I never drink before lunch,’ said Orso.
They looked at each other for a moment, then both burst out laughing. ‘You’ve a hell of a sense of humour,’ said Orso’s father, raising his glass in a little toast. ‘No one could ever deny that.’
‘To the best of my knowledge, they never have. It’s every other good quality they accuse me of lacking.’ He took a swig, swilled it about his mouth and swallowed. ‘Ah, rich and red and full of sunshine.’ Osprian, no doubt, which made him wish, if only briefly, that they’d conquered Styria after all. ‘I’d forgotten what excellent wine you have.’
‘I’m the king, aren’t I? If my wine’s poor, there’s something seriously wrong with the world.’
‘There are several things seriously wrong with the world, Father.’
‘Doubtless! I was visited by a delegation of working men from Keln, you know, just yesterday, with a set of grievances about conditions in the manufacturing districts there.’ He frowned across the beautiful palace gardens and shook his head in dismay. ‘Choking vapours on the air, adulterated food, putrid water, an outbreak of the shudders, awful injuries from the machinery, babies born deformed. Terrible stories—’