“In Ostenhorm.”
“Angland, eh? Got work up there, then?”
“Some.”
“Not mill work, I reckon.”
“No.” Broad thought about lying. But he owed Sarlby the truth, didn’t he? Owed him that much. “Been working for Savine dan Brock.”
Sarlby gave an ugly snort. “Savine dan Glokta, you mean. The Darling o’ the Slums! You ever see that pamphlet of hers?” He laughed, dry and choking, and it turned into a cough, and he had to wash it down with the thin ale they served here. “How fucking stupid does she think we are?”
“From what I’ve seen she’s a pretty good judge,” said Broad. “Of that and most everything else.”
“And what does the likes o’ you do for the likes o’ her? Turn your hand to millinery, did you? Or have you gone from poacher to gamekeeper?”
“I’ve done what I had to,” growled Broad, feeling the anger coming up hot. “I’ve got a wife and daughter to take care of. They’re happy for the first time in years. You think I’m saying sorry for that?”
Sarlby held his eye. “Didn’t ask you to. Just want to know where you stand, is all.”
Broad realised he’d got out of his chair and was bent over the table, clenched fists trembling on the wood and his lips curled back. Realised everyone in the wretched little place was looking at him. He blinked, and slowly lowered himself again, and made his fists unclench. Seemed an effort. Like there were barrel-bands around his hands, holding ’em shut.
“I tried it your way.” He settled his lenses back on his sweaty nose, made himself breathe slow. “Look where it got us.”
“All we done was take a first step. There’ll be many more, on the road to freedom. And much more lost along the way, I don’t doubt. Might be I’ll never see the end of it.” Sarlby had the light of belief in his eyes. Or maybe the light of madness. Maybe there was no difference. “But the day’ll come when my kind will. Depend on that, Bull Broad. There’s a Great Change coming.”
“So… you’re still with the Breakers?”
Sarlby slowly forked up the last of his food, and slowly chewed it, and looked at Broad with narrowed eyes. “What’s it to you whether I’m with ’em or not?”
Broad paused. Felt like huddling in the trenches at Borletta, his hand on the ladder, waiting to rush at the walls. One more step, then there’d be no going back. He whispered it. “I need to talk to the Weaver.”
He saw the muscles on the side of Sarlby’s gaunt face squirm as he clenched his teeth. “Well, you’ve got some fucking nerve. Savine dan Glokta’s errand boy, come back here all fat and shiny, asking to see the Weaver.”
“No one ever accused me o’ too little nerve.”
Sarlby barked out a joyless laugh. “No. No one accused you o’ that.” There was silence as he slowly tore off a piece of bread, and slowly swept it around in the gravy on his plate till he’d soaked up every drop. “But I got to warn you, the cool heads all died wi’ Malmer. Feelings are running hot.”
“I need to talk to the Breakers, Sarlby. Cool heads or not.”
“I can take you to ’em.” Sarlby slowly chewed, slowly swallowed, slowly sat back. “But what happens after ain’t up to me.”
Grown Up
“Where’s the damn booze?” bellowed Jin. He tossed his bag onto a richly upholstered chair and it slid to the floor while he threw open a chest big enough for Leo to have lain down flat in, rooting about inside.
“I’ll say this for the Lady Governor,” murmured Jurand, heels clicking as he crossed the floor and gave the shimmering drapes a stroke, “she can certainly pick a set of rooms.” He nudged the tall windows open, a warm breeze flowing in along with the slap of water and the excited Styrian babble of Sipani’s evening crowds.
“How many do we have?” asked Antaup, flicking back that curling forelock as he pulled open a communicating door to another salon full of mirrored luxury.
“Must be five at the least.” Glaward gazed up at the ceiling, which was painted with a lot of smug-looking bastards eating grapes. “Place is like a palace.”
“Like a palace,” grunted Leo, frowning at two carved cherubs among the gilded moulding. He supposed he was the Lord Governor of Angland and should demand the best of everything. His wife always did. But in truth, luxury made him nervous. Couldn’t help thinking what the Dogman might’ve made of it. Shook his head and murmured, “State o’ this,” and given a little grunt of a laugh, most likely. Leo was carved from the same wood. Always felt happier sleeping in hay than on silk, eating with his hands than with silverware, sitting around a campaign campfire than a dining table. He kept worrying he’d blunder into something and break it.
“Here it bloody is!” Jin had flung back the doors of a vast cabinet to show a collection of spirits big enough for a small but very high-priced tavern. “Look at this!” And he rubbed his hands and set to rifling through the bottles.
Antaup, meanwhile, had flopped back onto the bed with his arms out wide and a great grin across his face. “Bloody hell, Leo, I swear you’ve bagged the one woman in the world who could change my mind about marriage. I mean, sending you off? To Sipani? To have fun? With the boys?” He barked a disbelieving laugh at the painted ceiling.
“Well, the wedding all happened in such a rush—”
“A reckless charge, might you say?” asked Jurand, raising one brow.
“They’re what I’m known for,” said Leo. “No time to give you bastards the send-off you deserve.” He rubbed nervously at his sweaty throat. “And it won’t be all fun.”
That caused an awkward silence, glass clinking in the background. “When are you meeting the great King Jappo?” asked Glaward.
“After sundown.”
Antaup sat up. “Rubs me the wrong way, making nice with one of the Union’s worst enemies.” And he punched a pillow as if it was King Jappo’s face.
“You know what Stolicus said about enemies, don’t you?” said Jurand.
“To kill an enemy is cause for relief,” intoned Leo, in that pompous way Jurand trotted out the quotes. “To make a friend of him is cause for celebration.”
“You actually read it?”
“Not a bloody page.”
“Can you read?” asked Glaward, slinging a heavy arm around Leo’s shoulders.
“I can’t,” said Jin, pulling a cork with a thwop and sniffing at the contents. “And I’m fucking proud of it.”
Jurand rolled his eyes. “Can we even find our way to Cardotti’s? This bloody city’s a warren.”
“A baking warren,” said Glaward, sniffing at the damp circle under one armpit.
“Never fear.” Antaup slipped a dog-eared book from inside his jacket. “I’ve got Glanhorm’s famous guide to Sipani. And I can read. When I’ve nothing better to do.” He unfolded a cumbersome map from the inside cover and squinted at it in some confusion.
“Does it show the landmarks, and so on?” asked Glaward.