‘My father gave me a battalion and said I can have command if I raise five thousand more men, but … for that I need money.’ He let a fingertip trail down her collarbone to the hollow at the bottom of her throat. ‘You know people. Rich people. People who might consider me … an investment.’
Savine frowned. If she judged an opportunity to be poor, she would not damage her reputation by passing it on. If she judged an opportunity to be good, she wanted it for herself. But five thousand soldiers meant a vast expense. Uniforms, weapons, armour, bedding, provisions. Then there was the army of men and women needed to get those men to the field and keep them there. The host of carts, wagons and beasts of burden. The food and supplies for them.
And, however much she wanted to be generous, Orso was beyond unreliable. He kept a brothel’s laundry girl instead of a servant, for pity’s sake. He scarcely understood the rules of business, let alone could be expected to observe them. If she was to lend him money, she would need guarantees. A crystal-clear understanding of what she expected in return. A contract. One so tightly binding, not even a king could wriggle free of it.
Perhaps encouraged by her thoughtful silence, he gave the slightest, uncertain smile. ‘What do you think?’
Her mouth smiled in return. Then, entirely independently of her mind, it said, ‘I’ll give you the money.’
There was a silence. As the expression gradually formed on his face, he looked more suspicious than grateful. And who could blame him? What the hell was she doing? ‘Just … like that? All of it?’
‘Why have money at all if you can’t help … a friend.’ Somehow she almost choked on the word.
‘No repayment plan? No favours in kind? No speak-to-this-fellow about that-piece-of-business?’
‘It’s all in a good cause, isn’t it? Patriotic.’ Good causes? Patriotism? It was as if some other person was speaking with her voice.
He reached up and gently stroked her cheek. He could be so delicate when he wanted. ‘Just when I think my opinion of you can’t get any higher … you surprise me. I have to go! There’s so much to organise.’
It wasn’t until he whisked his hand away that she realised she’d been pressing her face against it. She still felt the heat in her cheek. She was blushing like a child and turned away, embarrassed. Furious with herself, in fact.
‘Of course.’ She smoothed her dress, fiddled with her necklace, adjusted her wig. ‘I’ve a dinner to attend myself. With Marshal Rucksted and his wife—’
‘Sounds an absolute riot. Now, you’re sure about this?’ He slipped an arm around her waist from behind, held her tight against him. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘I always say what I mean.’ And she did. Except now, for some reason.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he whispered in her ear, making her neck tingle. ‘Or Sworbreck will, at least.’ And the door clattered shut behind him.
Savine stood there, in silence, in Sworbreck’s cramped office, trying to understand what she had done. She loved to gamble, but she always knew the game. This was reckless. This broke all her rules.
All those awfully intimate friends who she knew really envied and hated her would have a ready answer, of course. There is no more ambitious snake in Adua than Savine dan Glokta. That bitch hopes to ride the worthless crown prince’s cock all the way into the palace. She wants to steal the throne. Then she really can be above us all instead of merely acting like it.
Perhaps they would have been right. Perhaps she was harbouring some childish dream of becoming High Queen of the Union. Zuri had a point, after alclass="underline" everyone looks better on their knees. Had Orso not been crown prince, she would have had no interest in him. What was there to be interested in?
Apart from his looks, of course. And his easy confidence. And the way he made her laugh. Really laugh, without a shred of pretence. That little twitch at the corner of his mouth as he thought of a joke that set hers twitching in sympathy as she wondered what it would be, never quite able to guess. No one could surprise her like he could. No one understood what she needed like he did. She thought of how dull everything was while she waited for the message from Sworbreck. The dressing, the dinners, the teas, the profits, the dressing, the gossip, the strategising, the marks in the book. Then how everything exploded with colour when the message arrived. As if she was in prison when she was not with him. As if she was buried and only came to life when—
‘Shit,’ she breathed.
She felt suddenly as weak at the knees as she had when Bremer dan Gorst rammed her into the wall. She had to slump back on Sworbreck’s desk, staring down at her discarded drawers, rumpled on the floor.
Everyone knew he was a vain, lazy, useless waste of flesh. A man she should not want. A man she could never have.
And she was totally in love with him.
PART II
‘Progress just means
bad things happen faster.’
Terry Pratchett
Full of Sad Stories
‘Be sure to sweep the chimneys on the east side first,’ said Sarlby, leaning on his broom. ‘These ones only just got doused. Still hot as the Maker’s forge.’
The sweep was a quivery old drunk with a squinty eye and a stink halfway between a tap-house and a mass grave. Two smells Broad knew better than he’d like. ‘I know my business,’ he grunted, not even looking up as he led his boys past. Four of them, soot-smudged and hungry-looking, loaded with brushes and rods. The littlest whistled as he went, gave Broad a grin with a couple of teeth missing. Broad tried to grin back, but he didn’t have much of a grin in him.
‘I swear that fucker’s more drunk every time I see him,’ muttered Sarlby, frowning after the sorry little procession.
‘If I hadn’t sworn off drink already, the sight of him’d be a winning argument for temperance,’ said Broad.
‘It’s a damn shame, lads that age sent down chimneys. How old was that youngest one, you reckon?’
Broad kept sweeping. He’d learned in Styria there’s a lot of things that are better just not thought about. Couldn’t be a coincidence that the happiest men Broad ever knew were generally the stupidest.
‘They buy ’em, you know, from the pauper houses. Lads with no kin and no hopes. They’re hardly better’n slaves.’ Sarlby wiped his forehead and leaned down close. ‘They scrub their knees with brine. Elbows, too. Scrub ’em raw, morning and night, toughen ’em up like boot leather so they can stand those hot chimneys.’
‘It’s a damn shame.’ Broad lifted his lenses to rub at the sweaty bridge of his nose, then settled them back. Summer outside and the kettles cooking all day inside and the brewhouse was hot as an oven. ‘But the world’s full o’ sad stories.’
‘No doubt.’ Sarlby gave a joyless little chuckle. ‘I know one poor arsehole lives in a cellar by the river over on Meadow Street, leaks so bad he has to bail it out every morning like his home was a sinking skiff. Where’s your family now?’
‘Malmer found us a set of rooms halfway up the hill.’
‘Oh, my lord.’ Sarlby stuck his nose in the air and put on his idea of a nobleman’s voice. ‘A whole set?’
‘If you can call two a set. They cost, but my daughter’s got work as a maid and my wife’s bringing some money in stitching. Funeral clothes, mostly.’
‘All the best clothes around here are funeral clothes.’
‘Aye.’ Broad gave a sigh. ‘Always been good with a needle, Liddy. Good at whatever she turns her hand to. She’s the one with the talent.’
Sarlby grinned. ‘Not to mention the looks, the brains, the sense o’ humour … What is it you bring to the marriage, again?’
‘Honestly, I’ve no bloody idea.’
‘Well, good for you, and good for your family. Things aren’t so bad halfway up the hill, where the vapours are a little thinner. Someone’s got to come out on top, I guess. Someone’s got to do well while others suffer.’