by Leo Carew
“This has to be done,” said Roper, stubbornly.
“Then keep it that way,” Keturah insisted. “Because you will never, ever gain the necessary support if you tell people the truth. Are you determined to accomplish this, by any means possible?”
“Of course.”
“Then allow people to keep believing what I believed. Let them think this is just an avenging raid. By far the most well disposed towards this plan will be the legates and legionaries, because they know you on campaign. They’re loyal to you, or most of them are. Wait until we’re in the south, and then tell those who have come with you what the plan is and why. If anyone finds out before, you will be blocked at once.” She snapped her fingers. “You may even be deposed, or face Kryptean assassins.”
Roper thought for a moment, trying on the idea and finding it to his liking. He smiled quite involuntarily. “Are you going to help me, my love?”
She was quiet for a time. “Do you know, Husband, I do actually believe in you. Perhaps I have never mentioned this before…” She paused, frowning. “Perhaps I have been remiss. I think you will be one of our great rulers. I cannot believe you survived last year. You have a battery of skills that I believe separate you from other occupants of the Stone Throne. Obsessively driven. An eye for the big picture. Principled to the point of madness. A problem-solver. And most of all, unyielding. I understand this. I understand why you need to do it. I suppose I had never thought about it before. But you need my help.”
Roper could hardly credit these words coming from this always cynical, often scathing woman. But he had known for a long time that her acidulous manner hid someone obsessively loyal to those close to her. She had just never expressed it so explicitly.
“My partner,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to work out how you subdue millions with seventy thousand legionaries,” she said. “The Academy has all the answers. I will assemble them in one place.”
Roper looked across at her. “So I have you with me? I thought Gray might be, but otherwise was worried I’d have to do this alone.”
“Have you never taken it seriously when I said we were a partnership?” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “I am at your back.”
It took them a week’s riding to reach the Hindrunn, where they were met with a roar of welcome from the Great Gate. It stood open already and the Black Lord’s party cantered through the exposed tunnel of stone, emerging onto the cobbles of the outermost residential district. The streets crawled with memory for Roper. On his first entrance as Black Lord, he had been jeered, hissed and humiliated. On his second, the cobbles had been deserted: the subjects certain that he would gain entry with violence, which might then be turned on them. And on his last, there had finally been the peals of cheering; the bundles of bitter herbs thrown in front of the column; the hands reaching out as he passed.
There were fewer subjects than usual. Most of the auxiliary legions were out of the fortress, beginning work on Roper’s grand construction project: the Great Canal. The River Abus already stretched nearly from one coast of Albion to the other, with the final unguarded portion of the island defended by a canal instead. The canal and river were to be joined, and both broadened and fortified to create a single strip of defensive water that cut the island in half, controlled by a new dam to be constructed behind the Hindrunn. The Anakim were poor swimmers, with the males unable to swim at all due to the heavy bone-armour plates beneath their skin. In the mind of an Anakim, a wall of water was near impenetrable.
The pace of those left behind was gentle. They stopped to gossip in the streets, breaking off to observe Roper intently as he passed. A herald was calling out news from atop a mounting block: four Suthern ships had been wrecked in the north-west, washing fascinating cargo ashore; two men had died in construction of the Great Canal; the melting mountain snows had brought flooding to the east; a strange blood-red rain had fallen a little north of the Hindrunn. Any who wished to hear more would trade a little food, labour or metal with the herald for the details, and he was soon surrounded by voices clamouring to hear more of the shipwrecks.
The horses were left in stables below the Central Keep, and Roper and Keturah climbed to their quarters at the top of one of the towers. Roper threw the cloak from his shoulders and Keturah shut the door behind them. The room filled with a potent silence.
“You know where I have to begin,” said Roper, after a time.
“I know where you think you have to begin,” said Keturah.
Unhierea.
A land of valleys and mountains to the west of Albion, populated by a race of half-remembered giants. Somewhere no Anakim had set foot for generations, and whose inhabitants, by all accounts, treated the borderlands with Suthdal as a hunting-ground. To them, the Sutherners were just another harvest.
Keturah frowned, turning away to throw a window wide. “I think it far more likely that you will lose your life than gain an ally if you go there.”
“It could be dangerous,” Roper admitted. “But as we have already discussed, we are stretching the resources at our disposal to the very limits of what is possible. I just know we have to try. There were a lot of dead at Harstathur. I don’t know if we’re enough to subdue Suthdal as it is, and if I lose too many men while trying, then we bring about the apocalypse we’re trying to avoid. We have to try.”
“But you don’t have to go, you know,” said Keturah. “A king, walking alone into a foreign land with nothing but his words to hide behind. We don’t even know whether they speak a language we can comprehend, and if they do, whether we have enough in common with them to be able to strike a bargain of any kind. They may kill intruders on sight. They may be wholly unpredictable and untrustworthy. If you fall in Unhierea, what then happens to your grand scheme to preserve our nation?”
Roper threw down his pack and began to empty it. “Well you’d continue it, wouldn’t you? If I died, that task would be yours.” Keturah raised her eyebrows, and Roper looked away from her before going on. “But I can’t ask my men to go where I dare not. And in any case, I certainly won’t be alone. I’ll need help… someone so mindless and savage that even the Unhieru won’t intimidate them. Who won’t take no for an answer, who won’t back down, and who may well enrage them but will undoubtedly win their respect.”
Keturah laughed grimly. “So Pryce, then.”
“Correct,” said Roper. “But he’ll undoubtedly anger them. Tekoa’s authority would be welcome too, and he’ll need some fearsome warriors with him. Vigtyr, and some others of dubious restraint.” Whoever else he sent, Roper would have insisted on Vigtyr’s presence. The giant lictor had proved a valuable ally, and Roper still felt unease that he had not been able to reward him as he had intimated in their original negotiations: with a place in the Sacred Guard. Vigtyr had been gracious and effusive in his thanks for the sword and estate that Roper had granted him instead of that lofty position, but Roper wanted to bring him closer still, honouring the lictor, who was an unusually skilled and resourceful servant.
Keturah began to empty her own pack, a frown on her face. “Vigtyr’s injured, isn’t he?” she said absently.
“Not badly, I hear,” said Roper. “But time is paramount. To subdue Suthdal, we will need a full campaigning season, and must go to Unhierea at once. We can stop at the freyi on the way, Vigtyr can catch us up there.” The freyi was the girls’ school, located in the wild forests west of the Hindrunn.
But Keturah did not seem to have heard this. Her face was unusually downcast, and he realised too late that he had not acknowledged his companions for this most perilous task would include her cousin and her father. He opened his mouth to say he did not know what, but was intercepted by a knock from the door. “Messengers, messengers,” he said, moving to the door. “If this is Tekoa complaining about the wool shortage again, I’m leaving him in Unhierea.” He tugged the door open and then stood in the doorway for a moment, completely still. In the corridor outside was
a legionary holding a leash noosed around a small sheep. The animal had been shorn and stared up at him gravely.
“A present from Legate Tekoa, lord,” said the legionary, holding out the leash. Roper stared down at the sheep for a moment, and then he stepped aside so Keturah could see it.
She looked briefly from the sheep to Roper. Then, ever unable to resist a joke, she laughed like a crow.
4
The Accomplice
Inger and the assassin stared at one another for just one more heartbeat. Then the knife at his side jerked forward, flashing up beneath her ribs. Or that was where it would have gone, had Inger’s hands not lurched out, palms blocking the top of his wrist and halting the blow, blade wavering perilously between her forearms. His other hand lashed out, thumping into her chest and sending her staggering back. His boot swept forward, kicking wet grit and rock up into Inger’s face, and then he turned and ran. Inger toppled to the ground, hands flying to her eyes and trying to force them open. Vision blurred, she saw two dark shapes hurtle past her, swords flashing in the light of the flames. Salbjorn and Leon. “Stop!” she gasped after them. “Stop! One of you must stay to protect the boy! Protect the boy!” Salbjorn, the rear figure, skipped to a frustrated halt, turning back to Inger. But Leon careered onwards, pursuing the assassin around the longhouse and into the dark.
Salbjorn returned to Inger, offering a hand which she seized to pull herself upright. “The fire was a diversion,” she said, still trying to clear her eyes. “We must find the boy! Where does he sleep?” Salbjorn gestured to the far-left longhouse, and they broke into a run. The bucket-line had faltered as the tutors turned to stare at the scene unfolding behind them. Then the Master of the Haskoli strode into the courtyard, roaring at them to keep going and protect the neighbouring longhouse.
Together, Inquisitor and guardsman limped to Ormur’s sleeping quarters. Salbjorn hauled open the door and the two of them swarmed inside. There was an audible gasp but the interior was so dark they could perceive nothing past the door. “Where is Ormur?” demanded Inger of the darkness. “Ormur Kynortasson?” She could just distinguish eyes, shining in the gloom, at all different heights but each one wide and alert.
“He went outside,” replied a voice. “Just a few moments ago.”
At her back, Inger heard Salbjorn exit suddenly. “Where? Did he say where?”
There was a pause. “We heard the word intruder. I think he thought it was his brother’s murderer. He went after him.”
“Stay here!” Inger commanded, turning back into the rain and casting around the courtyard. The dark shadows of the longhouses loomed before her, one of them now a flaming skeleton. The black figures of the tutors ran before it, the mountains surrounding the school leaning forward, cast in flickering light.
“Inquisitor!” howled a voice from her left. She turned and limped towards it, working her way between two buildings. There she found two struggling figures, one clutching the other, who was evidently trying to escape. “I have him!”
It was Salbjorn and Ormur. The guardsman had one hand fastened on the boy’s collar, the other around his wrist. So turbulent was Ormur’s shadow that he resembled a tight column of ravens, flapping and swirling as he tried desperately to free himself. “Let me go!” hissed the boy.
For one wild moment, Inger thought that Salbjorn would. He removed the hand from Ormur’s collar, but only to strike the boy hard about the head. Ormur collapsed, stunned, and Salbjorn placed a boot on his chest to keep him down. “Idiot,” said the guardsman, briefly. Ormur did not respond, stirring feebly. “The assassin’s up there,” Salbjorn added, giving a barely perceptible gesture up the mountainside behind them. Inger strained her eyes, but could see nothing on the mountainside. She listened, and behind the splattering rain, the crackle of the flames and the shouts of the tutors trying to extinguish them, she discerned the clatter of rocks overhead. Suddenly, there came a roar: “Bastard!” It must have been Leon, but the voice was so strained and so furious that it sounded more like a wounded beast. “Bastard!”
Salbjorn crouched over Ormur, then dropped to one knee, succumbing at last to the injuries he had taken on his fall from the longhouse. “He’s lost him,” said the guardsman, quietly.
Dawn found Inquisitor and guardsmen staring at the smoking wreckage of their longhouse. All that remained were a few blackened timbers and a bed of grey ash, though the bucket chain had preserved its neighbour. Inger felt cold and battered. In the chaos of the night before, she had not realised how badly she had been jarred by her leap from the window and this morning could manage no more than a stiff limp. “What happened then?” she asked Leon.
“He outran me.” Leon sounded furious, and then grudging. “Whoever he is, he sprints well.” Inger made a mild noise and patted Leon’s arm vaguely. He stirred irritably, taking a pace away from her.
“At least this rules out the theory that the murder was committed by one of Numa’s contemporaries here,” said Salbjorn.
“An absurd theory,” muttered Leon.
“Maybe,” said Inger.
There was silence for a time. “What do you mean ‘maybe’?” asked Leon.
“Numa may well have been murdered by the man we saw last night. But he probably had help from inside the school.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Salbjorn.
“Oh, just a suspicion.”
“Based on what?”
Inger turned away from the wreckage of the longhouse, drifting in the direction of the mountainside where the assassin had outrun Leon the night before. The two guardsmen stared after her for a moment, and then followed. “Based on what?” Salbjorn tried again.
Inger looked a little confused. “Isn’t it obvious?” The guardsmen observed her blankly. “The assassin must have known Ormur was being guarded, otherwise he would certainly have just tried to move in and out without creating a scene. Instead, somehow he knew a diversion was required. Whoever torched our longhouse last night did so on purpose, lamp oil had been spilt over the walls and floor. I suspect that was partly an attempt to be rid of us, but mostly to provide a diversion, so that Leon would be drawn away from Ormur’s longhouse. Now, if it was an assassin living outside the haskoli, how did he know where we were staying? How did he know we were there to investigate the murder? Someone in this school is working with the killer, and lit the fire to create enough chaos that the killer could go in and finish his task.” She looked between the two of them. “Don’t you think?”
The guardsmen looked at each other, and Salbjorn shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I think so,” said Inger, turning back to the mountainside. “And here we have a fresh trail,” she said, staring up the steep scree face where the assassin had escaped. “The assassin will be waiting for another opportunity to strike at Ormur. He’s somewhere in these mountains, and I want you to try and track him, Salbjorn. The trail will deteriorate fast and I hope you will begin at once. Leon, you stay here to protect Ormur when he returns.” The boy had gone running with the rest of his herd at dawn: an activity they usually undertook alone. A “herd,” Inger had learned, was the derisive term used by the tutors for the groups into which the students at the school were separated. On this occasion, Inger had insisted that two spear-wielding tutors accompanied him, though privately she doubted they would be able to stop the intruder with whom she had come face to face the night before.
“The killer’s going to have a lot of opportunities,” growled Leon. “This place is very exposed, and unless we find him, the boy’s dead too. I cannot be at his side night and day.”
“We will find the assassin, and until then you must do your best,” replied Inger happily.
“I will find him,” said Salbjorn, simply. He raised a hand in farewell and set off up the mountain. He had been in the Skiritai before earning a place in the Sacred Guard, and was an experienced tracker. He soon found the trail and Inger watched as he worked his way up the hillside, head scanning right and left, dropping
to examine various signs with his fingers. Eventually, when he had begun to understand the path he was on, he broke into a jog, disappearing from view. Leon had already stalked back into the courtyard and Inger turned to follow him, intending to search the school.
Both guardsmen seemed lost in this role and the oblique tactics it required. A battlefield was straightforward: kill anyone not on your side. More subtlety was required here and that was what Inger had been brought to provide. She had been a Maven Inquisitor for two decades already, though was still young for the post. It was an influential role and by strict tradition only occupied by a widow, of which there was no shortage in the Black Kingdom. It began with years spent at the Academy, learning the details of a thousand crimes and the steps taken to resolve them. Decades apprenticed to a Maven Inquisitor had followed, before Inger had finally earned the right to wear the dog-headed angel over her breast. Ramnea: the angel of divine retribution.
Ramnea was a merciless figure, and though she was the Inquisitor’s ultimate authority, a little harsh for Inger’s liking. When investigating, she imagined another spirit watching over her shoulder and guiding her eyes. This path had been a means to escape the painful memories of her dead husband, but the further down it she walked, the closer his ghost seemed to follow. She could feel him now, at her shoulder, looking over the scene with his keen grey eyes. “So where first, my love?”
She wandered into the courtyard, looking over the longhouses that bordered three of the sides, backed by cliffs and steep scree slopes. Leon was right: the school was terribly exposed. Keeping Ormur safe would be close to impossible. With her in the courtyard were three Black-Cloaks: teenaged tutors who had shown particular promise in the berjasti, the second stage of education in the Black Kingdom, and been seconded to teach the younger boys while receiving accelerated training in leadership.
At that moment, the students were out running over the hills, and so the Black-Cloaks were enjoying a rare moment’s peace. She approached them, smiling vaguely. Boys of this age had barely seen a woman since they had first entered the haskoli at just six years and they observed her with more than a little fascination. “A long night,” she observed, stopping before them. “You must all be tired.”