A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

He had always thought of civilisation as a machine, cast from rigid iron, everything riveted in its proper place. Now he saw it was a fabric gauzy as a bride’s veil. A tissue everyone agrees to leave in place, but one that can be ripped away in an instant. And hell lurks just beneath.

Perhaps that’s what makes a hero, though. The towering self-confidence to dance at the brink of disaster and never consider the drop.

There were a hundred roles he had tried and failed at, often spectacularly. Husband was one of the few remaining at which he might yet achieve dazzling success. He would not let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Not this time. He stood by the curtain to the main part of the tent for just a moment, looking back. He pressed his fingers to his mouth, almost blew her a kiss. He stopped himself, realising how ridiculous it was. Then he did it anyway, damn it, and let the curtain fall. There had been a time—yesterday, being honest—when dawn would have found him searching through the bottles scattered about his bed for something he could suck the last drops from. But that man was gone, never to return. Tea was what he needed now. The dawn beverage of industrious achievers!