Roper could hardly explain that the man whose earthly remains had just been atomised was responsible for the poisoning of his wife. He feared Uvoren’s retribution, though, and from then on, kept Keturah close, giving both her and Tekoa their own escort of trusted guardsmen.
But men were beginning to fear acting on Uvoren’s behalf.
Next to fall was another Sacred Guardsman, Hartvig Uxison. This one had two Prizes of Valour to his name and a big reputation. But three witnesses said that they had seen him strike a woman in the aftermath of the post-campaign feast, when he had been slighted by not being invited to the Honour Hall to dine with the Black Lord.
Hartvig went down with more honour than those before him. He quietly admitted that it was possible he had done such a thing; he had, after all, been blind drunk. But he had no memory of the incident and professed never to have met the woman he was accused of striking.
Guilty.
He was stripped of his place in the Guard, but allowed to remain a subject, with the Greyhazel agreeing to take him in as a legionary. The Ephor also left it in Roper’s hands whether he should be stripped of his Prizes of Valour; it was the Black Lord’s power alone to remove or bestow those. Roper considered the legionary. “Hartvig earned those prizes,” he spoke at last. “And in my view, a single drunken error does not change that. Keep your prizes, Hartvig. I hope that one day you earn the right to wear the Almighty Eye again.” Hartvig inclined his head in genuine gratitude. He was disgraced, but it was not over for him.
That had been on Gray’s advice: Hartvig was already taken care of and, in the future, Roper might want to welcome him back. There was no sense in making enemies unnecessarily, especially as there might be a time after Uvoren when he would need men like Hartvig. Roper also considered that Hartvig, though he had been with the army at the time, had not been one of those who had attacked him beside the fire atop Harstathur, when Pryce had intervened. Perhaps Uvoren had not truly believed that Hartvig was enough of a friend of his to slay the Black Lord. Perhaps he had been ordered to, and refused.
Empty chairs were appearing at the ancient oak table in the Chamber of State and Roper filled them with men beholden to him. Sturla Karson, legate of Ramnea’s Own Legion, took one. Skallagrim took another. Those of Uvoren’s supporters who remained were much quieter. Uvoren spoke out, as ever, against Roper but his proclamations were now followed by a tense silence. Vinjar, the Councillor for Agriculture, had ceased to come to the councils at all. Perhaps he hoped that Roper would consider he had renounced his alliance with Uvoren. His place was duly filled, but as far as Roper was concerned he had not escaped.
It was after Hartvig’s disgrace that Uvoren struck back. Helmec had reported as usual to train with the Sacred Guard whilst Gray had been advising Roper. Uvoren took full advantage of the Lieutenant of the Guard’s absence, commanding Pryce to beat Helmec.
“Why, sir?” Pryce demanded coldly. “He isn’t late.”
“I have found him insolent, Lictor. Do as I tell you,” said Uvoren, fixing Pryce with his narrowed glare and taking a pace towards him.
“When was he insolent, sir?” Pryce had no choice but to be respectful in front of the rest of the Guard, many of whom owed their stations to Uvoren.
“Yesterday, Lictor. Beat him.”
Pryce was still for a moment. “No, sir.”
Uvoren took another pace towards Pryce and reached forward to seize his long black ponytail. He bent Pryce’s head back and pressed his own into the lictor’s face. “Are you disobeying my orders, Lictor? Beat him, or the others will beat you.”
“No, sir,” said Pryce through gritted teeth, holding eye contact.
Uvoren burst out laughing and let go of Pryce’s hair, letting him straighten up. He placed his hands on Pryce’s shoulders affectionately, chuckling in Pryce’s raging face. “It’s a joke, Pryce, calm down!” He patted Pryce’s hollow cheek and then glanced at Helmec. “But seriously, Helmec, get out of here or I’ll have you torn apart.” Helmec stood his ground for a moment, face expressionless, and then turned and walked away across the training hall. “Don’t even think about coming back. You are no guardsman!” roared Uvoren after him. He glanced at Pryce. “And you’re not a lictor. Lictors obey their commanding officer’s orders.”
Pryce was breathing hard but did not respond.
Roper was with Gray when Helmec arrived to break the news of what had happened to him and Pryce. “Helmec? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just been dismissed as a guardsman, lord,” said Helmec. “And Pryce is no longer a lictor: Uvoren forced him to disobey an order and demoted him.”
Roper watched Gray’s face fill with rage at the story of what had befallen his protégé and quickly suggested that they should take the air on the roof of the keep. “Come, you two. We’ve been inside too long.”
He led the pair up the broad staircase of spiralled stone outside his quarters, climbing thirty or so steps to a locked oak door at the top. Roper produced a key from a leather pouch at his belt and the lock clunked open. Behind the door, the leading of the roof was almost entirely hidden beneath a pristine white cape. A broad fire step protected by a crenellated wall ran the whole circumference of the roof, tracing the outline of the Central Keep and the towers which studded it. From above, it would look like a giant, round-toothed cog. Inside the fire step, the slate roof rose towards the centre of the keep like a mountainside.
These were the materials of the Hindrunn: slate, lead and granite. Everything was made of unyielding stone to prevent fire spreading within the tight walls of the fortress. Roper, Gray
