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

by Joe Abercrombie

am a bottomless well of revelation but cannot force the ignorant to drink.

No corpses, no glory, after all. Might as well regret the peelings from a carrot.

Battles may sometimes be won by the brave, but wars are always won by the clever.

‘Guilt is a luxury reserved for those still breathing and with no unbearable pain, cold or hunger demanding all their fickle attention. Long as guilt’s your big problem, girl

as they carted in a painting of a slyly smirking Styrian. ‘The Countess Istarine of Affoia is a proven politician, and would bring us valuable allies in Styria.’ ‘From the looks of her, she’s more likely to bring me a dose of the cock-rot.’ ‘I had imagined you would be immune from constant exposure,’

When you tell a lie, you have to sound like you believe it. Goes double for the ones you tell yourself.

But that’s what growing up is, maybe. Realising what a fucking arse you’ve been.

‘No, lads, no.’ Clover shook his head. ‘Very much no. You’re going at each other like a dog at a bitch.

‘You been eating well?’ he asked, looking her up and down. ‘You’re like hugging a bundle of spears.’

‘You can’t change what’s past, can you? Only what’s next.’

feeling too sorry for himself to much enjoy anyone else doing the same.

‘The bigger they are—’ ‘The harder they hit?’

The goal of government, you see,’ and the Arch Lector prodded at the air with his bony forefinger, ‘is to load the unhappiness onto those least able to make you suffer for it.’

as incongruous in Savine’s perfumed dressing room as a rat on a wedding cake. She watched Metello clamber up onto the stool to seat Savine’s wig with horrified amazement, as though she had happened upon a coven of witches about some arcane ritual.

Believe it or not, we all want what’s best. The root o’ the world’s ills is that no one can agree on what it is.’

Now Teufel smiled. Just a little curl at the corner of her mouth. Considered, like every expression of hers. As though she had been over her budget and decided she could afford one.

Rikke had never been able to understand why you’d care a shit who someone you’d never even met lay with. How few problems do you need to have before you count that among ’em?

Rikke wasn’t sure which was which, but one had a thick grey moustache, the other whiskers all around his jaw but his top lip shaved. Like they only had one whole beard between ’em.

The old king and his old cunts glowered at the young heir and his young cunts, naught praiseworthy on either side but all jealous of what the others had even so.

It turned out there was nothing romantic about shitting in a bucket while someone else watched.

Vick only broke a silence when she knew she could improve on it.

the big hats might have moved around, but the men wearing them were still lecturing everyone else on the way things should be while doing none of the work themselves.

Truly clever things are said with short words. Long ones are used to hide stupidity.

So she nodded along to his nonsense as though she’d never heard such profound revelations.

‘Attacking the city with an army would be like eating peas with a sword,’ he said. ‘Messy, frustrating and you’ve a good chance of stabbing yourself in the face.

Orso snapped his eyeglass decisively closed. Vital to look decisive, especially when you haven’t a bloody clue what you’re doing.

Knowledge isn’t always a gift, d’you see? Sometimes it’s better we be swaddled in the comforting darkness of ignorance.’

‘I smile whenever possible,’ she said, stony-faced.

Stour tapped a finger against his pursed lips as he watched, like a cook judging whether to toss a pinch more salt in the pot, rather’n a War Chief sending men to their deaths.

‘The very last thing we want is further bloodshed, Colonel Forest,’ said Orso, giving him the calming palm now. He had enough calming palm for everyone.

great healer needs to be tougher and more ruthless than a great warrior. They’re taking on a far harder job with far less reward.’

But then warriors on different sides always had more in common with each other than with anyone else.

No doubt she was fine-looking, but more than a bit mad-looking, too, wild and twitchy with a cross painted over one eye, a fat gold ring through her nose and a mass of rattling chains around her neck like she was learning to be some hillwoman sorceress but hadn’t actually got to the spells yet.

who men call the Young Lion on account of his youth and heroic opinion of himself.

Might be it’s people who kill people, but you can’t stab a man with a blade you haven’t got.

Cause my mother says boys whine about what’s done. Men decide what will be.’

‘Glory just sticks to some men.’ Orso glanced down at his hands and turned them thoughtfully over. ‘Others it slides right off.’

‘What do you see when you look at me?’ She frowned sideways. ‘A man who could tell more truth and eat fewer pies.’ ‘Ah.’ And he rested one broad hand on his belly. ‘Profound revelations indeed.’

One weak chin had clearly not been weak enough, and he had opted for several spread across his fur-trimmed collar.

One of the banners at the front of the Young Lion’s grand column had got tangled with a washing line, so they all had to sit in their splendid saddles waiting for it to get untangled.

Heugen nodded away like a chicken pecking at seed.

‘Yes.’ He clutched for something witty to add but the cupboard was bare.

‘Fought a war against the Gurkish thirty years ago, didn’t we? You sure they can be trusted?’ ‘Some can and some can’t, I would’ve thought. Just like Northmen. Just like anyone.

There was jealous admiration: of beggars for commoners, of commoners for gentry, of gentry for nobility, of nobility for royalty, all twisting their necks looking always up to what they didn’t quite have.

There was civic pride from the denizens of mighty Adua, City of White Towers, for no one breathed vapours so thick or drank water as dirty as they did, nor paid so much for rooms so small.

‘So the war’s over.’ ‘Seems so,’ said Clover. ‘A lot of men dead, and nothing much changed.’