“I got lice,” said Sarlby.
“Who hasn’t? Well, apart from Savine dan fucking Brock. Daresay that bitch shits soap and pisses perfume.” Judge narrowed her eyes to black slits, with a gleam of flame at the corners. It was hard to look into them. Hard to look away. “So she wants us to rise up, does she? Keep the king’s soldiers busy so she can walk a carpet of flowers right into the Agriont and slip her pretty little arse onto the king’s throne. Am I close to it?”
Broad glanced around at the men. “You’re Burners, no? I thought rising up was what you’re all about. You’ll get no better chance than this.”
Couple of them looked like they were buying it, but Judge only sneered. “Let’s say it all goes your way, and the Young Lion tears the Closed Council down and buries his wife’s father and all the other vultures, what then?” She poked him in the gut with her cleaver, made him wince. “It’s the nobles backing him. The owners still. We’ll have done nothing but swapped one set of users for another!”
“You’ll get a say in how things are done. Might not be a Great Change, but it’ll be a change for the better. The Brocks have done some good up in Angland. Limits on workers’ hours. Rules to keep gears and driveshafts safe. Controls on truck shops and overseers’ penalties. All sorts o’ things the Breakers been after for years.”
“That’s true,” said Sarlby. “I heard about that.”
Some of the others mumbled agreement. “Aye, my cousin’s got a place in a mine, he’s working three hours less a day.”
One even went so far as to mutter, “They call her the Darling o’ the Slums—”
“Do me a fucking favour!” Judge leaned down snarling over Broad again, lamplight gleaming on the edge of her raised cleaver. “You must take me for some new kind o’ fool.”
“No one’s saying they’re your friends!” Trying to stay calm in spite of his thudding heart. “But they’re the next best thing. Your enemies’ enemies.” Broad tried to smile. The way Savine smiled, like she held all the cards however bad things looked. Probably didn’t work too well chained to a chair, but he tried. “Come to the docks. See what I brought with me. Then you can be… the judge.”
“Oh, I like that.” She smiled, switched back in an instant from fury to oily desire, and she settled herself in Broad’s lap again, closer than ever, making him grunt through gritted teeth. “I expected fisticuffs from you, but never wordplay.” He could hardly think for the horrible, beautiful reek of spirits on her breath. “Did you bring me a present?” Had to keep a grip on himself. Had to. “How romantic.”
There was a squeal of complaining wood as Bannerman wrenched the crate open. The Burners clustered close, staring down eager as winter tramps around a brazier.
Swords glittered inside. A neat row of brand-new swords, all the same, with a long, straight, single-edged blade and a dull steel grip, fresh oiled from the foundry.
“Two-score infantry swords.” Bannerman pulled one from the crate with a practised flourish and displayed it to Judge. “Latest pattern. Still warm from the Ostenhorm Armoury. Better than the King’s Own carry.” He nodded towards some other crates. “Two-score horseman’s axes and two-score halberds, too. Two-score breastplates and two-score helms. All best Angland steel.”
Another crate screeched as Halder ripped the lid off. He pulled out a flatbow, sleek and deadly looking, even the frame made of metal, bored through with slots to make it lighter.
“Latest design with the new Wearing crank,” said Halder. “A dressmaker could draw it and it’ll still pierce the heaviest armour.” He tossed the bow across to Sarlby and he snatched it from the air, twisted it over, rattled the trigger, seeming to stand a little straighter with a weapon in his hand.
“Good?” asked Judge.
“Good,” said Sarlby, holding the flatbow to his eye and sighting down it, then slowly starting to smile. “Very good.”
“Then there’s this.” Broad ripped the top from the biggest case, dragging a fistful of wood-shavings out of the way. Dull metal shone underneath. A great dark, tapering tube three strides long, and stamped into it: Armoury of Ostenhorm, 606.
“What’s this?” whispered Judge. “You’ve got a fucking thunder pipe?”
“No. You’ve got one. The newest kind. Can throw a solid ball a mile or turn a few handfuls of ironware into a rain of death. They’ve taken to calling ’em cannons,” said Broad. “From some Styrian word, I hear. But whatever you call it, it comes to the same thing.” He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Lightning in your pocket.”
“Never saw such a beautiful thing.” Judge stroked that metal with her fingertips, up and down with a steady swish, swish, and Broad felt that sick tickle stronger than ever, not sure whether it was Judge or the weapons or some combination of the two that dried his mouth out so.
Made him wonder, for a moment, what she might do with all this machine-sharpened steel. She who’d killed dozens in Valbeck with just a bit of rope? He told himself all he was doing was taking a thing from here to there on the orders of his mistress. Wasn’t his concern what folk chose to do with it after. A tale traders in weapons been telling themselves since weapons first were made, no doubt.
Judge’s black eyes rolled across to him, gleaming wetly in the echoing gloom of the warehouse. “Well, I don’t think I was ever brought nicer presents, Gunnar Broad. I thought nothing could warm me to Savine dan Brock, but she’s managed to light a fire in my quim even so. Perhaps she really will be the Darling of the Slums in the end.”
“And this is just a taste,” said Broad.
“Just slipping me the tip, eh, you fucking tease?”
“I tell the Brocks we’ve got a deal, there’s a full shipload waiting on the docks in Ostenhorm. Enough to arm a whole rebellion. And all they want is for you to speak to the Weaver, get the Breakers and Burners to do what they want to do anyway. Rise up, all at once. On the last day of summer. Throw up the barricades and fix the King’s Own where they are. Make sure they can’t come to help His Majesty. The Young Lion will do the rest.”
“Huh.” Judge considered him through narrowed eyes, point of her tongue showing between her teeth.
“What?”
“You know why they call me Judge? ’Cause I’m the best judge o’ character. One look and I know a body better than they know themselves.” She pulled a wicked-looking axe from a freshly opened crate, all bright steel with no ornament. “You say you’re one of us. Malmer’s old mate. Good old Bull Broad, doing his best for the simple folk. But I reckon the jury’s still out.”
Felt like Broad stood at a cliff-edge, one foot hovering in the empty air. But he was surrounded by angry madmen. Ones he’d just armed. There was no way back. His voice sounded husky in his ear. “How can I convince you?”
Judge smiled wide. “The very question I’ve been thirsting for. There’s three dozen fellow travellers of ours been jailed after a little riot. They’re being brought into Valbeck for a show trial and summary execution. Tomorrow night, is it, Sarlby?”