He looked at her. “Yes,” he said, his voice a dim reflection of its usual self. “I regret this. I truly, truly regret this. If I am to fall short of holding the Stone Throne unopposed, I wish I had done it on my terms. I wish I had never spoken to Vigtyr. If my body is to be destroyed by sticky-fire, I wish that I’d fought this war against Uvoren with more honour than he. I want to be able to die without regret.”
“We must all do things we would rather not for the sake of the country.”
Roper was too preoccupied to give proper attention to that line. He dismissed it. “I have told myself that so often I don’t believe it any more. I can’t believe Uvoren would have been any more terrible a lord than I have been. This fortress is like the underworld; plague still stalks the streets and nobody speaks their mind for fear of hard legionaries hammering on their door the following dawn. People are terrified.”
“Roper the Ruthless,” mocked Keturah. “Roper the Tyrant?”
“I prefer the first.”
She laughed.
In Roper’s tangled mind, the alleviation of the plague had enmeshed with his own salvation. If he could return the fortress to something approaching normality, it would be a balm for the raw guilt on his mind, first at causing it, and second at the way he was tearing down Uvoren’s allies. Perhaps, too, it would show the Ephors and the Kryptea that he was fit to rule.
“Well, you’ve frightened Uvoren,” said Keturah after a while. Roper made a sceptical noise. “You have,” she said confidently. “He sleeps with Marrow-Hunter by his bed now. He has nightmares about the Ephors.”
“How do you know?”
“How do you think? We are a partnership now, Husband. If there’s ever a time when a warrior doesn’t stand behind you, you’ll find me there instead. For instance,” she tucked her legs beneath her and leaned into him. “It was I who passed Vigtyr the information that condemned the Councillor for Agriculture.” Roper stared at her, disbelieving. “He was guilty. It’s been going on for years.”
“You should have told me before.”
“I’d meant to keep it a secret, but I have been very clever. I had to tell someone.”
Roper laughed in spite of himself and put an arm around her. “Strange wife.”
“You are not a bad lord. You must believe me, Uvoren would be worse. Hafdis has not a single good word to say about him. But I think beneath all the hatred she loves him still.”
“She does?”
Keturah nodded. “Or at least, the idea of him. She is still waiting for him to reform: that’s why she delayed telling me about the poisoning. She was hoping Uvoren wouldn’t go through with it. But he is rotted through by love for himself. There is so little man left at his core that I am amazed the wrestling did not break him in half.” She was silent for a moment. “And don’t worry about sticky-fire. If you have gone too far, the Kryptea will let you know before the Ephors do.”
“I don’t know how far the Kryptea can be pushed,” said Roper. “Or what they consider acceptable. How can I rule when it is not even clear what I am permitted to do?”
“I could go to the Academy,” suggested Keturah. “Find out more about them. They’ll know what has caused the Kryptea to intervene before.”
There came a knock at the door and Roper flinched. A matt-black blade cut across his memory and left in its wake the flash of a cuckoo with outstretched wings.
“The Kryptea do not knock,” said Keturah impatiently. Roper stood and unbolted the door, pulling it back to reveal Helmec leaning idly against a wall and, next to him, Thorri, the Councillor for Trade.
“You left a message that I was to come as soon as I returned, lord,” said Thorri, who was fresh off a ship from Hanover, where he had been acting as a trade envoy. “I trust I have not disturbed you?”
“Of course not, Councillor, thank you for coming.” Roper stood back and showed Thorri in. Keturah, still sitting on their bed, gave Thorri a little smile.
“Good evening, Councillor. How are your daughters?” Thorri’s wife had given birth to twins just four months before.
“Teething, thank you, Miss Keturah,” said Thorri, taking the yew chair that Roper steered him towards. “A trip to Hanover was a welcome distraction. What has happened, lord?” Thorri asked, turning to Roper.
“What do you mean?” Roper furnished Thorri and Keturah with birch wine and took some for himself.
“Thank you. The atmosphere, it’s … it feels like there’s been a tragedy. Begging your lordship’s pardon, I’ve never seen this fortress so quiet.”
“Who knows?” said Roper, knowing perfectly well. “What of your mission?”
“Successful, lord,” said Thorri, cautiously. “The agreement is a tenuous one and limited for now to wool and copper in return for grain and iron, but I am hopeful it will provide a limited source of revenue. In time, as relations improve, it may expand into more as well. But it was a wise move, lord, because it sends out the message that the Black Kingdom is once again prepared to do business with the outside world.”
“Well done, Councillor, it’s a good start. I take it the agreement takes effect after winter?”
“Quite, lord; the seas are too rough to start now but in the spring we can begin.”
The Councillor stayed for a time and told them about Hanover. It was one Anakim in ten thousand who wanted to travel outside their own country, so the picture he composed of alien ways and lands was of special fascination, however disturbing it might be. He told them about the strange Hanoverian dialect; how it was barely comprehensible to ears tuned in the Black Kingdom. How the Hanoverian princes had adopted the confusing Suthern love for gold (though they seemed to have little answer when asked exactly why it was valuable), and lived in mighty palaces that towered
