The Wisdom of Crowds (The Age of Madness #3)

by Joe Abercrombie

There was a calculating piece that reckoned the only way to control a mad horse is from the saddle, and the danger of keeping your grip might be less than the danger of letting go.

“From the pupa alone it is hard to know what kind of butterfly might emerge to greet the dawn. But change.” He wagged a thick finger at her. “Of that you can be sure!

Regrets were for tomorrow.

“I’ve always been very lovable.”

There had been votes in the districts of Adua, apparently. Votes from every Midderland-born man, no matter how mean and ignorant, resulting in a body of representatives, as far as Orso could tell, every bit as mean and ignorant as they were. Votes. He could only imagine his mother’s reaction to that. The tyranny of the majority.

They argued every point. They argued the order of the points. They argued the method of argument.

He felt like the ridiculous peacock some Southern ambassador had once given his mother. She had kept it in a silver cage as a curio for visitors. It had looked deeply unhappy, produced an astonishing quantity of dung and not lived very long.

Orso raised his goblet in a silent toast. Why waste energy on hatred, after all? The world in which they had been rivals had dropped into oblivion beneath them like a sunken ship. They all were treading water to survive.

Better to do it, than live with the fear of it,

Always keep it friendly, if you can.

It felt as if a part of him that died at Stoffenbeck—the best part of him, even—came suddenly to life again.

Not long ago his pride would’ve made him stomp from the room. But his pride must’ve been in his leg, as it hardly seemed to bother him these days.

“I’ve heard it said a clever woman can turn enemies into allies with her quim,” mused Isern, eyes thoughtfully narrowed. “Yours seems to work the other way around.”

He was one o’ those bastards could look pleased with himself sat on broken glass, warming his hands at the fire like some smug old tomcat, his wet cloak thrown over a bench to dry like this was his hall.

But here’s the sorry truth—if you really don’t want a thing, you don’t have to keep telling yourself so.

There was a time she’d thought that burned face was a perfect mask for his feelings. Now she wondered whether there were any underneath.

But she knew better than to let the pain show. Letting it show is the same as asking for more.

Bayaz was the one pulling all the strings.” “Well, he won’t be plucking ours.” Shivers’ good eye turned towards her. “Better to have ’em plucked than cut, maybe.”

It was not like it had been. But what was? You have to make the best of it.

“We’re all at someone’s mercy, Leo.”

“If you break into people’s houses you can’t complain about what you see.”

She remembered something her father once told her. Being a parent means always being afraid. Afraid for your children. Afraid of your children.

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had claimed to love her and, if she squinted, she had almost been able to convince herself that she loved him.

Viciousness is a quality much loved o’ the moon.

She was honest and wise and beautiful and strange and knew things no one else knew and said things no one else would’ve dared to and made him laugh when no one else could. He’d never met a woman like her. There weren’t any others.

“Quite the power seizers, them twain. However you push ’em down they keep floating back to the top, d’you see, like a pair o’ goat turds in the well.”

But love is not always a solution. In this case, it was very much a problem.

She licked her finger and thumb and started snuffing out candles, each one dying with a little fizz and a curl of smoke. “So have I.” The room gradually grew dimmer, gradually felt hotter, in spite of the clammy fabric clinging to her, till there was only the gleam on the gold thread in the curtains, on the silverware and the glassware, at the corners of Orso’s smiling eyes.

“Because sometimes… to change the world… we must burn it down.

“Well! I think I’m being given the signal to finish up. To my sister, Savine…” He grinned over at her. The way he used to, when they were together, in Sworbreck’s office. When he had just thought of the best joke. One he knew she would love. That was how he wanted her to think of him. As he had been. As they had been. “I take some comfort in knowing you’ll be a far better ruler than I ever was. We have had our differences, but you remain the woman I most admire. And, let’s be honest, the only one I’ve ever loved.” He was gratified to see a tear slide down her cheek. It was not as if it had all been worth it, for one tear, but it was something. He grinned at the Lord Regent. “To her husband, Leo dan Brock, I can only say… how’s your leg?” He gave one last chuckle, and it became a sigh. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. There was a clatter as the trap dropped open.